I am carried along in that fall which, cutting by
its speed and verticality all threads that hold me
to this world, plunges me into prison, into foulness,
into dreaming and hell, and finally lands me in a
garden of saintliness where roses bloom, roses whose
beauty ... is composed of the rims of the petals,
their folds, gashes, tips, spots, insect-holes,
blushes and even their stems which are mossy with
thorns.