The last two pages.
Art tears an abyss into your heart and fills it with flowers.
Opens a blizzard of sunlight and awe in your chest.
It leaves you weeping and shattered on the floor.
My bones in my hand, ( the left one, la sinsestra. I'll rip the throat out of the first person to say, "southpaw.") are swollen and as hot as raw iron from a forge.
My spine is studded with spikes of rusty gold, the rust my own blood.
I spin and laugh at the sky or shiver in a chill autumn wind, naked, wondering how this came to be.
Sometimes metaphor makes more sense than empty words and useless notions of reality.
In essence, you must feel it before it becomes anything.
It will take about a week, and the Fracture of the Universal Boy will be real.
The rest is just details now.
I looked at it and understood that no matter how terrible the journey, in the end I/you will be glad to be alive. If, you understand.
That's a big "if" indeed, because I'm still spinning from the implications of what I've made.
The next time I write, it will be over.
Be well, and be kind..........