The snail’s covered up
Its eyes with wax, sunk
Its head on its chest,
And is staring into itself.
Above it
The house,
Its perfect work,
Which it loathes —
Round about its house
The world,
The rest of the world,
Ordered according to certain laws
That disgust it —
And in the middle
Of this universal disgust
There it is —
The snail,
Loathing itself.
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