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 because words of presumption, assumption, narratorial dogma preclude her from dying those Sufi deaths of the unpinched unsealed envelope, equal if not greater in their possible number, open faced deaths of ecstatic succumb flying through and through which, in the natal succor of becoming song, she would otherwise earn the feathers of new life. Which means, to me, at last attaining an end. Speech rays upright, so as to merit End. The life of the sibyl I am bargaining for—did I explain it here already?—is to, the satyr calls, leave the leaves behind, benjamin buttoning my way back from voice into body, so that one day the body will, finally, die, and so that when I die I will stay dead, this tune mine reticular.
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