... Suppose these hours are composed of ourselves,
So that they become an impalpable town, full of Impalpable bells, transparencies of sound.

Sounding in transparent dwellings of the self,
Impalpable habitations that seem to move
In the movement of the colors of the mind.

Confused illuminations and sonorities,
So much ourselves, we cannot tell apart
the idea and bearer - being of
the idea....

Autor: Wallace Stevens