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If there is a Force which is not motive, cannot move, please move now to edge me off this staircase of knowledge, the toe-action of climbing the spiral, the need to wander the labyrinth and poke at the walls, if there is a movement, a thing under the belt that drives, drive then, drive me out of my mind, up to a waterfall that jumps off a cliff like a bullet out of a pistol, it just goes until it hits something or falls, falls like the water to a pool and blends endlessly with the water of the pool until it is burned up like a steambath, running spooky like blood vapor into the cedar roof of the sauna . . . out into a galaxy, spiral-armed, and there is no brain here, separate from a body, no body to control, no control to mind with a mind, not even an umbilical cord going back behind my spine . . . nothing at all, only everything, like a table that has no legs and yet holds a feast so big it could feed the multitude of sinners coming to fast, not to eat, only to sit at the table with no chairs, no legs, no surface to hold any of this up or push it down, no enclosure, no centerpiece, all electric, all gas, and then it's volatile and a spark blasts away even the feet that would dance, the brain that would interpret the dance is humming like a cycle in a washing machine, the "normal" cycle, cyclone of normality, and then it all just wisps into a cloud like Cool-Whip until even the face of myself before I was born is fading into age and chromatin dots . . . and if that ain't possible, O Force, then fuck it anyway.

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