Descartian Vortices

I found in one of my rambles up the hills a real hermit, living in a lonesome spot, hard to get at, rocky, the view fine, with a little patch of land two rods square.  A man of youngish middle age, city born and raised, had been to school, had travel'd in Europe and California. I first met him once or twice on the road, and pass'd the time of day, with some small talk; then, the third time, he ask'd me to go along a bit and rest in his hut (an almost unprecedented compliment, as I heard from others afterwards.) He was of Quaker stock, I think; talk'd with ease and moderate freedom, but did not unbosom his life, or story, or tragedy, or whatever it was. Walt Whitman. Specimen Days 163

De todo esto yo soy el único que parte.  De este banco me voy, de mis calzones,  de mi gran situación, de mis acciones,  de mi número hendido parte a parte,  de todo esto yo soy el único que parte.   De los Campos Elíseos o al dar vuelta  la extraña callejuela de la Luna,  mi defunción se va, parte mi cuna,  y, rodeada de gente, sola, suelta,  mi semejanza humana dase vuelta  y despacha sus sombras una a una.   Y me alejo de todo, porque todo  se queda para hacer la coartada:  mi zapato, su ojal, también su lodo  y hasta el doblez del codo  de mi propia camisa abotonada. César Vallejo