Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the Angelic Orders?
And even if one were to suddenly take me to its heart, I would vanish into its stronger existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, that we are still able to bear, and we revere it so, because it calmly disdains to destroy us.
Every Angel is terror.
And so I hold myself back and swallow the cry of a darkened sobbing.
Ah, who then can we make use of? Not Angels: not men, and the resourceful creatures see clearly that we are not really at home in the interpreted world. Perhaps there remains some tree…