Apparently there is a correspondence between the heart and the sun. I’ve seen the chrysalis of my cardiosolar orb, which is itself a great eye; the only eye with which it can be seen, the only eye that can see itself. The union of the heart with the sun is the mark of – of what? No mark needs to be made, because there is no one to make it. I am not the one speaking these words. I have no theory. I am not trying to communicate anything. I refuse to convince, at this point. There are channels of squawking bread lifting its lips to the golden urine that I made in my black bed. I act before I understand what I am doing; this makes for my sainthood even as it makes for my culpability.
My sadness and my joy are two great orbs. I hold them in the same hand; they whirl underneath my skinny elbow. The exhaustion is unbearable. Slits form between my eyes while I stare into a bookshelf. I have chosen to enhance my sex so that a new religion can pipe the voice of revelation through a cum-caked laptop speaker. Barbs form on my fists while I wait for the next lady to enter my new domain.