I fear that I have perhaps ruined myself. That I have been quiet too long. That there is no more mystery, that there is only mystery. That, somewhere, on the final garden’s edge she stands at the heart’s thin-bled blades and I am lost between them. Unendurable, red-winged thicket, I become stone of eyes, slashed maw, the gape of searching statues. Outside, the oily hands of men assert themselves without a god. I am no better. I have been too different, small, estranged; a swallowed tongue among the maggots of having never really been.
