Trees, women and children are all the same thing: Background. Voices, affections, brightness, joy, this knowledge that finally here we all are. Indeed. Me and my ten fingers. Now the sun isn’t horrendous like a cheek that’s ready: it isn’t a piece of clothing or a speechless flashlight. Nor is it the answer heard by our knees, nor the task of touching the frontiers with the whitest part of our eyes. The Sun has already become truth, lucidity, stability. You converse with the mountain, you trade the mountain for a heart: then you can go on, weightless, going away. The fish’s eye, if we come to the river, is precisely the image of happiness God sets up for us, the passionate kiss that breaks our bones. Indeed. Finally, it’s life. Oh, what egg-like beauty in this ample gift the Valley spreads before us, this limitation we can lean our heads against so as to hear the greatest music, that of the distant planets. Hurry, let’s all get close around the bonfire. Your hands made of petals and mine of bark, these delicious improvisations we show each other, are good—for burning, for keeping faith in tomorrow, so that our talk can go on ignoring our clothes. I don’t notice our clothes. Do you? Dressed up in three-hundred burlap suits, wrapped in my roughest heaviest get-up, I maintain a dawn-like dignity and brag of how much I know about nakedness.