There was a celebration of words; I was driven to consume its light, images, and words again and again. At first I refused, but then I began to swallow. I got used to it, and the condition itself became poetic. I was written into it; words wrapped around every part of my body, I was covered in dust, rolled into the carpet, roses rained over me, I was chained with them—and I no longer wanted to stay away from them.

Then it took control. The words overflowed from within me and seduced my body. I lost control—contradictorily, erotically. I screamed: Stop! Pattern girls are chasing you, a flashlight shines across your muscles, it grows colder as it stretches, you grow cold, and you hang from my forehead..