The forest and all the animals are in her belly. The trees that tower so high into the sky of which are older than God, they want my seed, but my seed isn’t good enough because I’m just a shadow of something that wasn’t here to begin with. There’s the need within me to bite her shoulder and suck her neck so as to let her know she’s mine and no one else’s, but the older I get, the less everything makes sense, and all I can do is drift further away into a time and place that leaves me in a stasis that just won’t shift. She glistens and shimmers and speaks words of poetry, but I can’t reach her because I’m just a man and that means I’m useless. Nothing makes any sense, and this distance between realities can’t be overcome so I just sit around eating junk food and writing stuff that might or might not mean something to someone. Maybe there’s vision, and maybe there isn’t. Maybe we’re all connected, and when we leave our flesh behind, we’ll become one with the stars. Or perhaps there’s only dreary death and no escaping my return to the cold and songless void. Closing my eyes, I taste her breast and feel her nipple beneath my tongue and then comes the sight of her masturbating while bathed in the light of a candle and this one moment is the moment that rules all others. But then I open my eyes again, and she’s gone, and all that’s left is this feeling of absence that has glued itself to my soul. A cigarette brings on a tummy ache and a soak in the bath melts my flesh so I can see I’m just the bag of bones I am. Even the familiar warmth of white wine against the back of my throat isn’t enough to ease my inner blues, but these blues are what make me do what I do, so what’s the point in complaining? What’s the point of resisting when this trauma breeds so much creation that was once so far from my arms?