How powerfully absent the flower of the moon’s perfect tragedy. Dead once more, I waft aloft, populating the night’s eternal scent. Rats and worms have woven my wings from the rotting detritus of myriad corpses. The larvae of beetles have assembled pods filled with discarded eyes, cunningly attaching them to the body I no longer possess.

The lift of atrocities endlessly committed and repeated, like a skip in the spirals of time’s own recording, raises me heavenward. I am the svart blood of silenced space; voided, ever-absconding. The feral utterances of dead gods, blown stars, impossible distances. Without any sort of personal remnant, I wash up on alien beaches — obeying the pulses and ebbs of an invisible water, pulling and pushing me… a dreamt storm born of emptiness.

A furious orgasm of constellated departures.