A man walks briskly down the street. This singular man is distinguished by the anxiety he carries in his stomach. Yet, his burden is as artificial as his coat. His ears tremble with the cry of his living finger nails clipped by machines and his legs quiver with nausea inspired by others. He receives fresh torment from every person he passes. The anxiety enters through his eyes and passes through his bowels. His trouble however is never expelled like last night's dinner. There is no inspiration or escape. His feelings cannot be pumped from him like semen from the belly of a whore. "Maybe I'll take a walk through the sewer," he says.

Marie sits in a cage naked and filthy, her shame is available to everyone. Several men surround the cage and shower her with their urine. Wild animals are allowed in the cage one at a time for several hours a day. None can resist the odor of Marie's sex. The baboon caresses her breasts, the elk licks her ass, and the zebra enters her from behind. At night she howls with the wolves like a bitch in heat waiting for the sun to rise again. A gentleman offers Marie his hat. She shits in the hat and wears it for three days.

A sort of depression engenders a compulsion to continue. It is difficult to communicate to the outside world from inside a lung. My plan is to write and rewrite (automatically) however long it takes. To throw some pages into the fire and rearrange what is left. The expression is sloppy and destroyed before it manifests. When the lampless hours end will I be nearer? Though my beard grows hoary and thick like the coat of mastodons, I will not.

In the next room there is a faint cry from a woman who fades rapidly. My horror and curiosity draw me to the front door. On the other side of its mirror threshold a man waits for me. His countenance mutates and changes the nature of the world. He forces me into the Death Posture. Prone before the mirror I experience an ineffable transubstantiation. I regret his gift of oblivion. A single moment of reflection, panic and terror then an unconscious journey and evaporation. The Death Posture offers no time for awareness or knowledge. I cry desperately for help, but in the next room all they hear is a faint cry from a man who fades rapidly.

At twilight, those who play in the water touch the moon on its waves. In bed, those who lay on the covers hallucinate their existence. A conversation with the slave who fought to save the work from a fire. At midnight, those who play in the dust grasp the wind by its hair. In emptiness, those who die drain their bodies into a bowl left beside the bed. At dawn, the tree that still grows gropes the world with its leaves.