the atainment of the wine of truth is a spectacle that gods would restrict to themselves. no longer. the universe moves with my minute vessels. toward my most robust dreams of energy. Aboriginal. Absolute.
the dilemma of night and day must be incarnated in every wall against which my flesh brings the new cycle of sun. often cruel. always radical. longing for wombs and lips and elementary forces.
no ground on the whole aimed at Down. no law of physics. no Ariadne's thread but your stones on which my stones shall rest in war.
the walls demand our best muscles in order no to break in darkness as plural as my souls and their exceptions and many bodies and uncountable fibres. of mine. of yours. wholly yours from scratch. descended from the future. sparrows shall not fall. Nor Die. write it down on the chest of the Fiction
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