Maybe if I close my eyes, shut out the lamp light, and in the quiet prickling plaza of my seculision, drift.

Maybe if I think of nothing, want for nothing, and in this room, lulled like an infant learning colours, just go with it.

I can let my brain take the reins while I sit and let it happen; the nerves in my fingers, like sinews tied to some higher chi, twitch with animal impulses, as around me my word womb pulses, and I simply, in a lullaby, submit.