Where there used to be a thousand branches there are now a thousand brushes-- it's our own world. A baby turns in a black void, to be born unto us, with love; if she dies, she will be dissected. See the cross-section of her shoulder, gold-haloed. But she's born at the airport. A woman cries near a sign... Can't read it. Leave the airport, limos in traffic, I am baby, I'll never know why I have to be driven by such hard people. No one asks questions about anything. A child on the floor is now I; a man walks down our stairs. I say, "There you are, what's behind your foot?" No answer. It's ugly, a broken black cloth. I suspect this isn't life. It's not as large a story as I remember. "Gossip quotient," he says, "This world is for stars." "Empty the value value value, he know," I say in baby-talk. "Too much pointing at...civilizations," he says, "See the past trying to frighten us. This film is funnier than that." "It...terror," I say, "not funny." "We don't listen to baby; baby is childish. But we love you, the little 'un." Magic lake, black, gold lights, that was that. That was probably my past. "Other great intellectual houses will have more to offer: Baby emotes too much." I don't think I'll talk again. I saw them sleeping, the blooming roses, I want to sleep & dream of another world. I'd rather be a leper. "I had no idea I was alive. A surgeon defined it," he says. "Baby, are you taking notes?" "No, I locked them. My feeler will tell me when I'm alive again, when this dream end."
(originally published in The World #49)