A dark, heavy-blue February day pulled from me a sigh of quietened relief. So much artificial gyration had had its warrant sent out. Knowing itself to be a dead man, tracked straight to certainty, the ice block of conceit dropped itself dead in its tracks. What a beautiful sight! The love beast sang its own death song from out an already anguished mouth. And yes, the penetrating tone of the morbid howl was the one that burst an airtight catacomb. Now that the catacomb be banished such that no magic-claiming map may direct one thither . . .
To feel so much this better on a day of gloom whereupon the earthcries bring a dull pain to my side, as if a lancet were poorly thrust therein? The dust of sham recognition settled over the furniture where I should move about. Do I stir it and sneeze, or move so delicately that only molecules will notice me? And yet the answer falls short of the mark — which seeks to know whether a germ of joy need feel traitor to a world of woe . . .
The world stands on its tail and executes a neatly turned tailspin. I as an ancient airplane with tattered fuselage watch as the procedure evolves of itself. I see the world full of cocoon-spinning worms. Only they never bother to hatch the flying butter. This is why the face of the tailspinning globe is smattered with husks of silk. All is left is the slick outer covering. The lifeflow has gone elsewhere. My airplane body feels the chill wind blow through its rips and gashes. Propellers twiddle in the wind like a ghost’s muffler in wintertime.
The creatures of the moon, those of lost spaces, and hounds after sanity, all these must be kept or keep themselves warmed. The howling icicles do their jagged harm even to the frost owls. Aye, there must be the remnants of circulation, or else the vastness turns upon itself. The cannibal’s remorse at having engulfed its own mouth! What to do without an organ of ingestion?
