The void was death, and the void was in her head. It was also between her legs. It was most things; it was all things. There was something blood-curdling about the void, and yet, stood before the canvas on the verge of bringing it to life, she knows the void is what she desires more than anything. Squeezing the tube of paint—which is reminiscent of the colour of her father’s eyes before they turned into dried sultanas—she smears it over the surface of the table. Pouring some white spirit onto it, she takes the paintbrush and dips it into the beautiful mess. Swirling it the same as she would her tongue over a hardened nipple covered with cream, she takes a step back and again points the brush at the canvas. Anything at all feels possible. Art. Love. Existence. Everything is everything, and as she closes one eye and uses the other to aim the brush as if it were a gun, she is the center of the universe. She knows she isn’t, and yet she absolutely is, and as the stars and planets move around her, she readies herself for birth.