As Transtromer said, there are bare winter days when the sea and fields are fully known to one another. Now I’m sitting still. What is inside me—the angers of childhood, the lifelong contempt because I’m disabled, they sink now beneath the floor. Far below my house is a moon glow iridescent shelter where human grief huddles as in an air raid. That’s me down there. He’s blind too. He sits under a clock…one of those railroad clocks from the 19th century…it ticks with a language of dead straws…The blind grief boy throws himself forward without trembling; turns around and around; draws dark pictures on the water of solitude. Grief isn’t polite. It’s a stone that migrates up. He draws and the stones appear. He does not know about the world far above where pain might be deleted.
Planet of the Blind 