Without My Wounds, Who Was I? My

But That Was The Thing About Zero. Its Weakness. Even If Zero Had Taken Over The Entire Universe, The Biggest Fascist Of All, One Tiny Gesture Could Deny It. One Footprint, One Atom. You Didn't Have To Be A Genius. You Didn't Even Have To Know That Was What You Were Doing. You Made A Mark. You Changed Something. It Said, "a Human Being Passed Here." And Changed Zero To One.

It Was Only Natural To Want To Destroy Something You Could Never Have.

They Dream Of Men With Gentle Hands, Eloquent With Tenderness, Fingers That Brushed Along A Cheek, That Outlined Open Lips In The Lovers' Braille. Hands That Sculpted Sweetness From Sullen Flesh, That Traced Breast And Ignited Hips, Opening, Kneading. Flesh Becomes Bread In The Heat Of Those Hands, Braided And Rising.

I Wandered Through The Stacks, Running My Hands Along The Spines Of The Books On The Shelves, They Reminded Me Of Cultured Or Opinionated Guests At A Wonderful Party, Whispering To Each Other.

And I Realized As I Walked Through The Neighborhood How Each House Could Contain A Completely Different Reality. In A Single Block, There Could Be Fifty Seperate Worlds. Nobody Ever Really Knew What Was Going On Just Next Door.