Eee Carl Philips! Do you know Sea Glass? I can't find it online so, uh, here:

It's cold here, in the wind. Night fog. We can

leave, if you like. Moral landscapes, coming down
as usual to a foreground all agony, pursuant
joy, more agony, a lesson
                          insisting hypnotically,
grass-like, wave-like, ever on itself -
                                        this time,
it's not like that. The body is not an allegory - it
can't help that it looks like one, any more than
it can avoid not being able to stay. All along,
it was true: timing really
                           is everything. I've

loved this life. If it's one thing to have missed
the constellations for the stars themselves,
it's another, entirely,
to have never looked up.
Some mistakes, given time, don't seem mistakes -
I'm counting on that; others, though perhaps
a little bit still worth being sorry for,
                                         lose force,
we forget them mostly, or we say we have and,
almost, we surprise
ourselves, even - we mean

what we say: It's cold here. It's dark. Follow me.

Oh, and I loved Sea Change, hi, hello.

(Also, ahahaha fuck, less than 150 characters and I manage to leave a typo in. So much fail!)