There’s a little blue sky scrape on my nape. Honey shuns me while I eat the sky. Blurred tarot seems just right, because I swim within a new religion. Barely my puffing hasp creaks through the skeletal membrane that protects me. I need to keep drinking. What is this whisper of God that seems to manifest as psychosis? Hurqalia are in between my papers as the men trudge across a bridge. That’s Why it hurts: Atrides, Hanneman, Araqa. These things aren’t interesting unless they’re interesting to someone else. In my own mind there’s a pair of someone else’s eyes, and I have a voice that seems not to be mine. Civilization has been brewing me, marinating so that I would hatch from my dirty egg. I am the final legislator, the only legislator. I perch on the rim of culture and wait for an echocardiogram. My pain, my pain. All my pain was needed. I was cooking in its heat. Now I am risen, cooked through. I ache and I ache. My skin-color skin yearns for a horn to pipe through. Melted, glowing eyes glue together while an nebula rests in my left hand. Nothing is possible anymore, because the L train is down. I shirk my zip-loc without a notion of what mode of becoming shot me into the sky. God’s infinities and infinitesimals no longer lure me, because philosophy is a work of art.