Among the things the sea throws up, let us hunt for the most petrified, violet claws of crabs, little skulls of dead fish, smooth syllables of wood, small countries of mother-of-pearl; let us look for what the sea undid insistenly, carelessly, what it broke up and abondoned, and left behind us. . .
. . . Let us look for secret things somewhere in the world, on the blue shores of silence or where the storm has passed, rampaging like train. There are the faint signs are left, coins of time and water, debris, celestial ash and the irreplaceable rapture of sharing in the labor of solitude and the sand.
