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And in that moment I came rushing back to myself. I’d been hollowed out, displaced, but now I felt like a person again, full and returned to within my own borders.
I did a little snake-grin in the dark.
I stretched my limbs in many directions and did some wiggling. I am alive and I like to be alive!
The bush of ghosts is an infinite night and I howled into it. I’ll tear the night apart if I have to. I’ll be your morningstar, you snakes, you spiders, you monsters waiting to take form. Mother fuckers. Welcome to your nemesis, I thought, while stepping into the new continent of anger within me.
What’s the word.
My animating principle is my open palm. Watch it fly, born aloft on hostile winds.
I do a little jig and then begin slapping. I slap snakes. I slap spiders. I slap monsters expressed as confusing parades of talons and teeth. I begin laughing and slapping like I am a machine specially constructed to perform the act. I’m a whirlwind of implacable palms. Watch me perform a new sort of music. Watch me howl along to the yawps of monsters who’ve been rebuked. Watch me punish the bush of ghosts like it’s in some way responsible for my predicament.
It’s not, but this is convenient.
And anyway I’m sick of being here. Time to leave.