When you die, only the body is left, only the poor and degraded shell, tattooed and pierced, scarred by the own self and its secrets exposed, like a dirty dress ejaculated on and then tossed aside, a gesture of insignificance.

This is dying. Death is the consummate of life, as birth is the consummate of death. It all occurs in that cobalt blue, shiny as obsidian, ocean bed. Its waves contain the rhythm of dreams, cradling the body like an egg. It is precious, this potential energy, this innocence, still dead within its womb.

I can feel all of this when I breathe, like it is alive in me. It is this house I think. We are in St. Louis for the weekend, and the city is active and fertile. And this house, it has bred life, contains the secret of my dearest friend. Its discovery was a credit of archeology, and in this space I can move and I can think and I am not numbed by the constant intrusion of human contact. I can see these things, and I can feel.

And it is blue. It is all blue.