Yes, quickly, move on: there is too much, too much: history, nights of handheld walking from The Place and back for lung-stabbing pains and the moments of romantic vomit upon the well-seasoned air, yes God yes—she beat into my back yes God yes in looping palindromic exuberance! It is for me and I am for it. Inspiration o muse you shapeshifting goddess. Tar and paper and porcelain, bountiful liquid porcelain you came to me in the night dancing on my slumbering body with a wet kiss of teehee and the moon shone through my window stopping my heart for you to enter where you, you, you&me&me&you we found our misery: to hold the world in contempt while holding each other sweet Death sweet Victory where is thy sting?

Let’s go.

But there is more, so much more.

It will be the death of you.

Remember the cat?

The cat?

Yes. The cat.

Oh. Well—I do not care about the cat. I care about this. Here. Now. I care about my neurons, my enzymes. They speak to me directly. They are me and I am them. We are we and these thoughts are our thoughts. Thoughts of twisting decay and wintry failure. Thoughts of barren walls and barriers and banana cream filled cardboard. Thoughts of sightless nights groping toward anything something to comfort and to calm. Thoughts of blue-eyed Death, open armed watching them fall down down down into their graves just like that. Thoughts of white-backed women and shoulderblades like wings. Thoughts of yes and no and thoughts of the Form of All! I have seen it screaming my name in orgiastic fury. I have seen it weep fiery tears onto undulating archaic fabric. I have seen it naked and cold and shivering in fear of the outside world—outside, the collisions, the pain of faith and truth and questions and the emptiness, the movement, the chaoticrushofarmsandlegsallcomingatyouatoncetoeateateat! I have seen it knife-edged and warm, smoke-blast filling the air with dreadful silence, yes silence, the frameless shot of I am! I am; therefore, I can be not. The negation. The horror. The beauty. The paradox.

Step.