Flow Chart, "the culte du moi..."

        the culte du moi being a dead thing, a shambles.  That’s what led to me.
	Early in the morning, rushing to see what has changed during the night, one stops to catch one’s breath.
	The older the presence, we now see, the more it has turned into thee
	with a candle at thy side.  Were I to proceed as my ancestors h ad done
	we all might be looking around now for a place to escape from death,
	for he has grown older and wiser.  But if it please God to let me live until my name-day
	I shall place bangles at the forehead of her who becomes my poetry, showing her
	teeth as she smiles, like sun-stabs through raindrops.  Drawing with a finger in my bed,
	she explains how it was all necessary, how it was good I didn’t break down on my way
	to the showers, and afterwards when many were dead
	who were thought to be living, the sun
	came out for just a little while, and patted the sunflower
	 
        on its grizzled head.  It likes me the way I am, thought the sunflower.
	Therefore we all ought to concentrate on being more “me,”
	for just as nobody could get along without the sun, the sun
	would tumble from the heavens if we were to look up, still self-absorbed, and not see death.
	It doesn’t matter which day of the week you decide to set out on your journey.  The day
	will be there.  And once you are off and running, it will be there still.  The breath
	you decide to catch comes at the far end of that day’s slope, when her
	vision is not so clear anymore.  You say goodbye to her anyway, for the way
	gleams up ahead.  You don’t need the day to see it by.  And though millions are already dead
	what matters is that they didn’t break up the fight before I was able to get to thee,
	to warn thee what would be done
	to thee if more than one were found occupying the same bed.