for verily in images we live.
And with small steps the clocks do pace
beside our actual day.
Without knowing our true place,
we proceed from working alignments.
The antennae feel the antennae,
and the empty distance spanned...
Pure tension. Oh music of the powers!
Do not our venial transactions
turn all interference from you?
Though the farmer toil and trouble,
there where the seed turns into summer,
he will never reach. The earth bestows.
Rainer Maria Rilke, from Sonnets to Orpheus
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