Then, on the beach whose only noise was its own waves or the wind that passed high above like a grand,

nonexistent airplane, I gave myself over to a new species of dreams- unformed,

soft things, marvels of deep impression, without images, without emotions, clean,

like the sky and the water,

and sounding like volutes unraveling from the sea, rising from the depth of a great truth;

tremulous with an oblique blue in the distance, becoming green as it arrives, with transparent places tinted with other dirty green tones;

and after breaking with a crash: its thousand undone arms, stretching them out on the darkened sand;

slavered foam, gathering into itself all tides, all returns to the liberty of origin,

all divine nostalgia, all memories like this unformed one from a prior state that did not pain me,

either happy for being good or for being other, a body of nostalgia with a foam heart, rest, death,

the all or nothing that surrounds the shipwreck island that is life like a great sea.

And I slept without dreams, detoured from what I saw by feeling, my own sunset,

the sound of water in the trees, the calm of great rivers, the coolness of sad afternoons,

the slow panting of the white breast of contemplation’s childlike sleep.

— Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

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