In the dark yellow of the night I became convinced that I too could swallow dreams–a mite on the gold of the hair of a behemoth. Insects lodged between my teeth, my esophagus, and I called them proof of my divine mandate. I watched myself from a gilded throne far above the clouds. I was too large for my house, spilling out of my windows. I saw ichor drip from my mouth and dribble onto my beige carpet. My frail arms became cornstalks, and they sustained civilizations. Mothers clutched children in the folds of my fat. Each exhale I pushed out became a deafening adulation. I inhaled whole universes. Trains sped through my mind, each peculiar and rusted. But fast. And that was what mattered. The type of speed and momentum that crushes the whole earth beneath mechanical feet. In the dark yellow of that night I began to dry heave, and unimpeachably convinced myself that my cold hands and declining organs were simply the symptoms of the greatness I had finally reached. With shaking hands I held up a ball of hair to the flickering light of my lamp, and saw it glitter as a diamond. I stopped being cold, then. I started to sweat under the opulent humidity of my delusions. And the fever has not broken since. My spine is snapping under the magnitude of my dishonesty.
I know exactly what I am thinking. What comes through the veil. I choose not to translate it even though I speak the language.
