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The man stands before the corridor of thought. The thinker is vexed because he cannot hold steady the image of his body. The whithering of flesh and the decripitude of old age. Genitals and ass, stomachs flowing with acids, intestines churning like steel mills. It has been his priviledge to ignore these things for too long. He has loved from his mind and loved his mind. He has made woman his double in order to have her bear the weight of materiality, of mortality. It is through this sickly fabric that his love has been made to spread. On the wall opposite him appears his ghost, who at the moment that thought arrests itself, invades his being, shatters his selfhood like a stone thrown through a window. This ghost is only a sketch, a diagram of a consciousness no longer aware of itself as such, a viscerality shaking the narrow alleyways of logic. The ghost seizes his eyes, makes the man stare down the unwalked corridors. There he finds trash, dog piss, styrofoam. There he finds cactus and marble, dolphins washed up on canyonlands, honey mixed with lavendar. He will create, from the seething beehive of his flesh and the monsoon of his dreaming mind. He will create from the utopia that another has blown his way, like sea foam, like air from the stirring of butterfly wings. It is his love that lets him cast stones through the stained glass of time.