This is a bedroom in which all my worldly things are strewn about like the bushes and trees of a meadow after a hurricane.
All my worldly things are points of view, like a garden which has no center.
They do not belong to me, nor do they represent a particular kind of reality.

They are jumbled together like a tumbleweed.
They weave like a spider’s web.

The shrapnel of grenades, the feathers of pigeons, and other such things float in the ether like raindrops.