I wanted to share the space of the book. To turn it into a necessary co. I wanted detritus and
demitasse to comingle, as an amalgam to offer us more prospect. I wanted we. To fill the frills beyond
their capacity thrills them. In case we could actually birth this. In case we would birth something else. We
are. I wanted an unending we. A neoteric conversion. A new way to merge.
There were varying qualities in this hope of beloved honing. It mattered that in my memory you were a
salty reverie. A moving target. A manifold. It matters that I knew you as ephemeral before I knew you
as physical. You were an egg within me. You were the arms that held me as I spawned our eggs. You
were the conduit I longed to be bound to. The conduit of light that if it were at all possible, would make
these bird eggs conducive to life in water.
We abide by many true states.
Songs are being sung underwater. Feelings are being yowled and screeched. Sounds are being
caressed from our creases, as we desperately perpetuate mosaic. By magic? Magic as an edict, is an addict
of its own staminas.
Unusual avowals do keep us rendering.
The cauls that we feel encasing us, have replaced my desire for hair. The hair of a woman has always
already died, when visible, but is usually kept there on the head. Is this why it is so difficult for some of
the others who come below into nervy aftershock, to stay living? This interval where we are
completely shaved and shucked. Where we are barraged. Here where it is considered evolution for us to
no longer have human skin or hirsute.
We are here in order to make the fractals come. We keep engaging them in order to take them further
than their screaming. They screamed when we were in human bodies, above. The fractals lived to scan us
then. We want to take them further, since they are still with us below. We vowed this to them, before. To
put full, salient helms from where broken hearts used to be. We coddle the fractals. We let them
know that we know that they too have hearts and genitals.
We are here within beautiful, bountiful degeneration. This is our beloved and we notice, as we are
being made into the beloved's years.
Wet pages are mounting us, as indications of a cosmic frock. Frock sewn from fractions of the
sailor, the monk, the swan bones, the mangrove's petals. Our we, drunken with exhaustion and with
elaboration. We continue darning felts into the unconditional temperament.
We wanted to replace our given bones with lace ones. We wanted our erectnesses, our boners to have
open holes in them. We knew no other way to do this. Our lace is made of water-soluble material. And
this is a way that we confess.
Because wouldn't a healthy lineage have to be interior and anterior both? Wouldn't it have to have its
futures in its form now?
The craving was to feel cellular trust. A transmography that would map us as it moved us. Whether suave
or abrupt. Even if by tearing through flesh or what had replaced flesh. I wanted our we to be vision's
deepest pitch. A we which could be addendum to all of the other things, themes, theisms.
As enigmatic personages and personifications come down from the dynamisms of the human sun, they
exhibit much inertia. They have their own deviations to show us. After we rub them in hopes of touching
the cosmic chord, they dispense us as an aglow that never stops clasping them.
You rest your head on the soft parts of my flesh. Oh now-ceremonial femme, like suspended ribbons
because we coagulate. Because we collaborate, libidos and non-line-based lineages of kink emerge.
Designate us deeper. You increase my femme by painting my panting. Down here my inhalations and
exhalations sound like brash coloratura.
We follow a stained glass weather vane. Somehow holding us to surface, and to depth at once. We are
doing this so that we are enabled descendants of between. So that in the plummeting we do not disappear.