Having opened to me, the terror, the smell of her skin, there was a swirling noise just above our heads, staining the light across the walls. I could smell the heat of her, the rank animal-smell, the drawing taught of the musculature, the rush of the blood. The singing of the wounds across my palms and back hummed for her, mystery-prayers whose meanings were lost on me. The vision fell out of my eyes, the simplest of shapes left before me, hues not fully distinguishable. This is the place where all things disappear. The click and scrape of devouring mechanisms entwined in the ceiling-webbing, the smell of lubricants and green milk. Something hid in the walls. For the first time, I picked up and began to read Vons Serin's cobble-bible, glazing over this conviction in the death of the black sun, the complete extermination of hidden constellations made of stars emitting pulses of radiation which, she wrote in elaborate footnotes in Ezekiel, tear at her dreams and possess the minds of lost men to hunt the righteous for sport. This, she explained, was the secret history of the world, and tucked within the desk were vials of various fluids and powders which supposedly constituted her protection from such forces, but I was just a child, and could not understand. I will never understand.

There are certain bodies of water in which it is impossible to drown, so that potential suicides eventually walk out of the wake disappointed and hollow and gather in small groups on the beach, sharing wine and towels, washing all that failed death out of their hair.

the exit is hidden within the exit