It is not uncommon for a speaking woman not to die. That her speech can survive zillions of small and large diurnal deaths, endured as mere papercuts, barely grazing the surface of this She’s so-called, so-presented ‘humanity’, is why when it is idle, idol—prattle, pratfall—woman fails utterly. She fails here or then because words of presumption, assumption, narratorial dogma preclude her from dying those Sufi deaths of the unpinched unsealed envelope, equal if not greater in number, deaths of true open song flying through and with which, in the succor of succumb, she would otherwise earn the feathers of new life. Which means, to me, attaining an end. The life of the sibyl I am bargaining for—did I explain it here already?—to leave the leaves behind, benjamin buttoning my way back from voice, into body, so that one day the body will, finally, die, so that when I die I will stay dead, this tune my particular.
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