Anxiety seems to have no edge—vaporous. It is actually a stain. It has the same kind of edge the known universe has: expanding black math.

If I leave the house, out of one of the red doors, it descends like a net, it shivers, it finds me.

I look to either side of the frame: I see the structure of the house, the contrasted edges, the screaming red and brown, shit and blood is what I see: I see the earth I’ve crawled out of—

(O fuck, I’ve made a shadow womb.)

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On the other hand polar tension is at the root of all birth and creation.

How gorgeous though that last night I had a breakthrough: saw the void-ness of black and simultaneously saw how full it was, of bones and nests, of shit and substance broken-down brew for life, turning into a concave that alternated as a protruding point, a nipple—the one that inspired the Virgin Mary’s unicorn to spring out of nothing, no doubt. What we dread is not death but admitting we know too much. I hold the shadow in me. God is in the Black House.