When suddenly the mines beneath us collapse, we see from the grass surface down to the rock and have an image of language before us. Everyone brings their own color blindness to this mysterious tableau; sometimes we squint into the sun and watch the formation flight of volcanic bombs. The shimmer around the breaking points in vocabulary is the bee, the heraldic animal of the writers. At least six Ariadne threads she drags behind her, extending our nerves down into the tunnels. Just beneath the trees begins the honey: A handful to take: "[...] and Francesco Petrarca says that Seneca says that Virgil says, because Plato says, as Angelo Poliziano says that Lucretius says when he praises Epicurus [...].