““scattered cracking sounds bristling gaps in the wood every now and then the red mark of a gunshot splinters of a language forgotten or, who knows, in a state of shards, bursting leaps, uproars and stellar winds or the simple rubbing together of our silences if they too should suddenly catch fire these flames, are they like a dance seeking in the night its roots felt and lived the whole length of a life the night outside is white, in the hearth, ardent and fragile beating of the embers of our lives — from "Nuits””