I want to think like Tarkovsky:
It must be a fragile and ramshackled house,
even the best bricks crumble into dust.
Yet the house has a soul
in the gradual deconstruction against the sky.
It would compromise everything,
maybe even God.
I can pull dreams
across the doorstep of my house.
The fireplace is on fire
in the waterlocked room.
I want to look into the downfall,
but who will hold me back?
I am sitting on
in these bleak marchlands.
They carry me completely
in all this mud.
I thank the rain for it.
I am thanking