In the monastery of solitude. Cloister. By you appointed. Your perpetual name entered the real of the old stone. You believe Voices. The voice of God. The only one hers. Say your name, Präsident. Other people's voices change you. Birds! Birds! The doubt in front of the mirror! The doubt! No face image. Nameless. And the terrible anguish near. With its nocturnal shadows. They are for the screams that go through the trees of the park. All shouts of the Shining. Unanswered. No hallways behind the door. The voice is announced. High to the top of the tongue.

Sense, then ex-isto as a hypo/thesis.