Dry snow coming down in the hills. Magpies hair-triggered and thuggish in worn trees. A wall has started to fall in you, it will take years to land.

Forget, too, the lamb-y, metaphor-male, the groinless, bourgeois Jesus, with his Easter-egg, candy-store-window eyes ogling the cruciform crosspiece of his eyebrows. If you meet such a Christ on the way, kill him. Do you wish to love? Do you wish to love? Leave love. Love nothing. Life is dark; life is dark at the no-place of the shocked heart cut two by the bone-handled, thrice-bladed Word.

One afternoon, disgusted, bravo, you fall asleep.