She is busy tracing knife wounds, busy eating her own hair, busy manufacturing crude fetishes. She is busy shredding skin, busy dismantling science, busy fishing the hangdog moon. She is the busiest person you know, this person in the red room thinking red is black, that black is the sound of a blade hissing on the throat on a night in a park by a tree that will never split open as this person will be split open, her blood and archeology dripping on the scarred bark, soaked up by the bulging tree roots, her underwear torn and hanging from a limb, his semen swimming in the wrong direction, in a stream without mercy, on a current without pardon, where the only thing to do is stay busy, to scream and scream, to keep screaming.
