Perhaps if I could just pick up the telephone and find it connected to a geriatric cult living in the basement of a meat-packing plant in Mexico, living off melted permafrost in the freezer rooms and floor-scraps, listening to my voice echoed from wall-mounted speakers, transcribing phonetically all my dialogue as to form a codex by which lesser demons could be spotted and destroyed by their vocal inflections and grammar, maybe that way I could do this, keep walking. Better I stuff my mouth with straw and set up shop in the nearest farmer's field, better I approach and study bovine trances, dog-speak. The place where I live now is filled with animals. People ride by on horses. Squirrels in the ceiling, bats under the awnings, a family of raccoons living off the back dumpster surplus. No canonical texts from any of the animals, to the best of my knowledge. Temple-forest grafted onto pasture. Rusted-out Studebakers as prayer-stones for migrant farmlands, for hunter-bands. There are these huge earth-combines made from the bones of the nephelim, carving up the river valley, planting corrupted artifacts by moonlight beneath the corn. She would put her lips to your skull and hum specific sequences, and thus guide your dreams while you slept. The powdered husks of insects. At some point I lost my fingers. It tastes of turpentine and cobalt. Up, up in the sky, there were these small clusters of nearly translucent jelly, you could only tell they were there by the way the sunlight would dapple on the ground, and people would fly kites, trying to snag and pull the plasm from the air, harvest the oval metallic seeds contained within, which the doktors would trade for Percodan and use to stain their tools.

the exit is hidden within the exit