Me, I will throw away,

Me, sufficient for the day.

The sticky self that clings adhesions on the wings to love and adventure.

To go on the grand tour a man must be free from self-necessity.

See over there, a created splendor made by one individual from things residual,

With all the various qualities hilarious of what hitherto was not.

Throw away thy sloth, self.

Carry off my wrath with its self-righteous satirizing blotches.

No self-exposure, the weakness of the prosa, but undefeatable by means of the beatable.

I will have love.

Have love from anything made of.

And a life with a shapely form,

With gaity and charm and capable of receiving with grace the grace of living.

And wild moments, too, self, when freed from you.

Prometheus calls me on.

Prometheus calls me: Son, we’ll both go off together, in this delightful weather.