Martin.

Among a hundred brothers.

The desert is something.

The edge of the Arabian desert.

With shattered, shattered, shattering.

All visions shattered.

The whites.

My head. 

The whites should.

They should be damned. He should.

She moved her mouth again as if she wanted to say something to him, at last say to him what she had never been able to say. She didn’t want to hold back anything secret, any enigma, but now something remained secret.

The whites.

Ingeborg Bachmann (The Book of Franza, tr. Peter Filkins)