From your hips down to your feet I want to make a long journey. I am smaller than an insect. Over these hills I pass, hills the colour of oats, crossed with faint tracks that only I know, scorched centimetres, pale perspectives. Now here is a mountain. I shall never leave this. What a giant growth of moss! And a crater, a rose of moist fire! Coming down your legs I trace a spiral, or sleep on the way, and arrive at your knees, round hardness like the hard peaks of a bright continent. Sliding down to your feet I reach the eight slits of your pointed, slow, peninsular toes, and from them I fall down to the white emptiness of the sheet, seeking blindly and hungrily the form of your fiery crucible!