In the twilight unfurling of my body, the whispers of the foliage echoed
like echoes distorted by pain: it was the long-awaited moment—long-
awaited by whom?—of the enchantingly atrocious mutation.

The flesh—our flesh—a hyperbolic geometry of blood-leaves suspended
in a dubious ether, intertwined with the mystery that resides in all things.
Then: an erotic tearing.
To enter into life is to renounce the longing of being.
Laughter derailed, fleeting gestures in the rain-hair. The body—our
body—estranged from its own structure, wandered between the limits of
reality and its psychic entrails.

I find myself in the naked profile of a lotus flower. In the saffron flashes of
a bird. In the air that never ends. In everything touched by the sun. A
blurred anatomy. A piece of involuntary memory that belongs to many
times and therefore is in many bodies
To enter into life is to fall upon the unseen things.
The pulse of the earth resonates in the folds of my skin. What am I? I am
nothing anymore. Now I just am. In the plants, in the mud, in the animals.
I am and I am not infinite. Because what is, lives in the happy
permanence of the moment.

As the last parts of my self disappear, millions of spores slide stories of
lithium and beryllium through the veins of my-our new, unextended
body. Stories I can no longer tell because my verbal shadows no longer
exist.
And I dissolve. But I am fecund. An expenditure of energy, born from a
void, that resists stopping.
To enter into life is to learn to die within it.