(Always in parenthesis does the other story exist, somewhere else, some other time, yet the same story, my own, only elsewhere. It is in women's essence to be multiplious.

In between these, wither and around, I wiggled underneath the soil, from her. From her flute-like ribs, from beneath the roots of huge trees, I struggled and flowered. We wrestled together, limbs tangled, roots biting into each other. We embraced, like lovers and children and mothers, aimlessly wandering over the indefinition of each other's bodies, the circumnavigation of women --our words and lovemaking. Rising and falling as indistinctly as waves during a slumber, we noticed not the individual movements, but the impression of the movement, as if we were hypnotized by it, letting it cradle us in and out of consciousness as I tried to spring forth and force a separation from her in order to claim an identity. Her arms were not easy to tear myself from. The innocence of the prelude to history kept me warm and I cherish the inconaissance of these intra-uterine memories. )

As I laid covered in his own body, his mucus and saliva, he experienced only his own disgust. He hated me then, and chased me out of the garden, having seen a reflection of himself slightly disordered by my femininity. He had not seen my face the way that mother had touched it, he had not seen my sweetness, but only the brutality I had caused to his body. He could not find me under all the layers of his projections of self. The duality of my vulgarity, its honesty and innocence, was lost.

He saw his weaknesses, the bronchitis that I had created within him, and ignored the beauty of how soft his flesh was, how tender, how finite. He did not revel, as I did, in our insignificance. He banned me from his garden and called himself god in return, rearranged our stories, and only after, after did he notice, did he begin to feel my absence and long for me. He tolled the bells and whispered to the trees that he would not be coming back for a long time, that he would find me and take me down with him, and that we would tend to the flowers together. Such promises he made without me, without my words, without my voice, without our marriage of thought. He did not stand in for me, he merely spoke. Before, it had been easy. It had been only one, only him, and there was no one to refute. As he gave the names to the world that lay around them, they came to be, under his sight, under his consciousness of them. There had not been another, to compose and contrast and create with him, and that I called it out differently, that I would, and that he would come to know this, would only bring him shame. They could not exist parallel, there could not be two. He sought his comfort through certainty and singularity while I shunned his walls and walked freely over the oceans, never wishing to go back.

He shut the doors of the garden and left to look for me then, convinced that I would embrace him. It is then that he fell, out of want, out of desire, out of that lacking that can never be replaced. I fed it to him, yes, this apple of knowing what could be, and left him hungry afterwards. He fell when he began to imagine impossible things, when he noticed variety and called imperfection. He followed me and Time began, unknowingly locking himself out of his birth-country, out of a static frame that he could not return to.

I had little sympathy.