Such a darkness, engulfing and overflowing beyond all that exists; if Yves Klein painted in black,
still too cold, still too wet, still by nature,
rounded being with explosive desires, maintaining the calm of a psychopath before the killing begins.
After several days, months, inward thoughts, inward interrogations, selfish disappointment,
painful twisting, writhing busting at the seems, freedom feels close as pain seems eternal.
Suddenly, a feeling of warmth, a feeling of ecstasy so liberating, but skies darken, frozen rocks rip through flesh.
The damage is done.
You are no one.
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