Is it so useless to talk 
With these still shades? 
Sometimes it seems that 
I spy my moves 
Through the vent of a glass stone. ...
But what am 
I observing? 
The sandpit 
I'm digging 
Doesn't seem deep enough, 'cause the cries of the wounded wave are covering my strains. 
But I long for this amorphous embrace 
To reach close connections with my 
Ego: This is the spiral... 
Is it so useless to talk with these still shades?