I'm very sick and in delirium, golden lions are running through the light, where the light falls, the light on your face, the light behind the clouds, the pallid light in Heaven, the light laying over the fields and the newborn light of the first day. A roar and it's nighttime, the darkness devours the inside and outside, rain-soaked owls on their arches, white shells at the shoreline, the black lake looks like syrup, the blood-colored whales surfacing, they look like strange tumors in the water, the wooden docks under the skull-colored, and schizophrenic moon, sacred places I will haunt when I die.