The lion’s face began to blur in the Sun and as it did I noticed we were coming closer to a massive ocean, though with no waves. A lake then. And the lion began to moan in canticles, a crescendo of eruptions, until he became like salt at the foot of the lake and his remains billowed there, spreading in the wind of the desert and into the ocean and around my feet. There was a whisper then that started like a Fibonacci horn in the distance, a disembodied sound edging closer out of the fog of the lake and to my ears; and then my eyes saw out in the distance a boat making its way toward us. On it, a figure, hooded in a gilded gold robe, paddling with a long oar, toward the shore, off target from me, but coming none the less.

There was enough time to compose a poem. I could have written about my barren lifetime, my Orgone days, my fleckless sunrises, my unknown carved stone mistress—her face a Pygmalion of frenetic tulpas—what has happened in the span of the lion and I's torrid walk among the desert? Or was it the water before that? I don't know when, but her face had faded: all I remember were hazy fashionings: an uptight architecture of bones scaffolding the face, chipped away emotions—the way she held together bits of spirituality to make an articulation, but it all didn't make a difference—it still failed, it didn't last longer than a carpenter's cry into the Mohammedan Sun. That is to say, the myth we had ritualized and methodized (Monday Tuesday Wednesday...) had come apart, fragmented into a sea of nonsensical, stationary components that floated deosil in the bygone yesteryear of my loneliness. It's been like this before and it will be this way again—this circle I named with a hallucinated Anima fascination: I'll carry its stutter to my grave. I'll paint it on the marble corners that line the casket of my spirit. I'll make new stars. And then...and then...and then...This disjunctive synthesis completes a process of painting my ruddy and damned soul white again.

I brought the lens of my diamond eye to bear on the approaching viscera Pisces woman of faith. She floats on the water! But oh, she floats not close enough—the illusion was a marred with an abstract contusion that signaled a glitch somewhere in the periphery of that machinery I call my dreams. Eh. Close enough: the woman, she was blind. She said Hello in a confident echo, knowing I was there, sensing it against the relapse of inertia in the background desert.

Can you take me to the city of Water?

Yes.

I climbed aboard the skiff—my legs buoying—and sat opposite of the psychopomp. She took her Asklepios staff and pushed away from the shore, the pile of salt just on the verge of finally disappearing into the vista. I rubbed my masked eyes and found a heat sore around the orbitofrontal socket. I dipped my hands into the lake’s lapis lazuli water and washed my face. In a few seconds I felt funny, different-- like how you feel something mutating inside of you after you get a vaccination; chalk it up to a career in psychonautics and a sensitive consciousness. But I began to see cavorting fractals, my body felt like the infinite engine it always was—I knew my day to day consciousness was a crude, stoked conundrum, a facsimile of this feeling. There must be so many things that block me, weigh me down, and keep me from being this. From being. Being as becoming. Infinite becoming. Eternal becomer and the masks I wear like days of the year. I laughed deeply like a madman, nearly throwing myself out of the skiff. I looked up at the blind woman ferrying me. She was Athena, masked war goddess—albedo-white solar eggs incubated in her blank stare. Across those shells a funeral procession began to take place:

A retroactive Trail of Tears: look their tribal scars, their liquidified homes, the seed taken from the pod, put over there in barren ground, anesthetized, surgically removed totems, past generations blood transfused to an infidel, aborted warrior heritages--all of them headed to Nizir. There's a certain way you walk when you're being stitched up in a storm: like a flagellating windjammer.

There was a sound overhead. East to West: a zipperline made a confident downstroke. The punctuation was an emergence in the distance: the sound of a million waterfalls at their beginnings. A form raised up in the distance: a trident's shadow. A massive island city careening up from the abysmal lake in grotesque puppetry.

The ferrywoman gave a smile and kept rowing toward the whirlpool blooming in the distance. The skiff started to move fasted, like the moth to a flame (well, the normal way you'd fiend after your objet a). And there it was, bright as day: the triple city, the triple gem: Mu---
bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk
Meru.
Perkodhuskurunbarggruauyagokgorlayorgromgremmitghundhurthrumathunaradidillifaititillibumullunukkunun

Lemuria.

The skiff accelerated toward the rising island. Though I shouted at the woman to slow down, she paid no mind to me.

I never figured it would come to this: being sucked in the whirlpool of an ocean city exploding from dark, snot green depths. My eyes began to water. I started to cry: not for the impending night threatening to consume me and my hollow-point consciousness, but the myriad things I had left behind in the world. So many things left unfinished. People wronged and taken for granted. Episodes with no clear finish. All of that hung in the vacuous cavern of my brain and I wept for all the time I had suspended in foregone conclusions. I have done much, but I have left so many things undone in my wake. Surely no person could finish everything they set out to do or promised another. But such is the nature of love and maybe that's how you know that you love something--the urge to do more and have more and express more to the people clothed in the rose daylight of my life still prevails against the enfolding end now subsuming my reality.

Is this what will happen to everyone when their world ends? The final blow to the edifice of the fantasy we carry around in our ends ruptures into a resolute love and wishful nature? Is that why those confronting this crack all the time are so filled with a profound beatitude of love.

It seems so obvious to me now the circumambulations my life has taken and always this realization: that our painful travails, the blanched and boiling days through virtue of some profoundly deep wisdom are able to crystalize into a sympathy and understanding that all things are damned to the same fate of fracture. And the fracture, it carries with it the germinal seed of healing if only we were to look at it. That takes a certain amount of willpower and an attitude of detachment but it's something I believe. Dark, fierce consciousness. Bright, still peace. I'll be gone but the part of me harangue in the other parts of the world might live on in some virtual way. And who knows, a girl might find the shell of my face somewhere imprisoned and grow to love me. When you love someone, you love a world. You enter into it and experience. Therefore you need to become a world, be a world, be worlds, be a universe of profound powers. For when your beloved approaches you in the cathedral of gold-flecked light, you will satisfy for ages to come.