“Deep yellow and hot red: thus my taste wants it; it mixes blood into all colours. But whoever whitewashes his house betrays a whitewashed soul to me. Some in love with mummies, others with ghosts, and both alike enemies of all flesh and blood – oh, how both offend my taste. For I love blood.”
Book 3, On the spirit of gravity.

By pulling these pieces of language and placing them here in my garden, under my sun, to nurture that which grows, am I not dressing myself in this language? Am I not deadening these beautiful words so that I may force them to life again as my own flesh-trophy? It is true that I choose these words precisely because they correspond to my own perceived identity. I want to drink the white-gold sunshine and suckle the heavy flesh of these words – but is this not another form of consumption and assimilation? Maybe it is not – maybe it only becomes so when I wear the language, which I am doing within this garden. How should I wear these words without consuming and corrupting them?