Dear diary. Rainy morning, early, dreary. The light coming through the window was the loveliest I’ve ever seen. You can lose yourself in Desire’s grasping eyes, her flowing robes and hair. She took me on a wooden ship and showed me unbearable things. Now the mermaids are upon me again, but this time my hair has grown white, my body frail. Every possible means of escape spirals out of my eye-sockets in columns of oozing plasma. I never wanted the mermaids – they were passed on to me to consume the fires of all my suns. My prayers are swollen with the rise and fall of music. A gentle heart gets lost in the implicit order of the things of Man. A gentle heart perceives the breath of all life, inner space at counterpoint with outer space, a singular consciousness divided into splinters uncountable, all returning to the one source. A gentle heart is a flower of milk, the milk of a flower, and the feathered followers of nine-hundred moons take shelter in the creases and folds of its tremendous wings, and it asks nothing of any one of them.