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There is a limb descending from the sun, a burning phallus or the spine of God. You will be a sun in eclipse. They won't know they're blind until they look away. What do you see? Butterflies? Wounds? Sex organs? The faces of your parents? I see moths. I see moths with faces on their wings. Your mother, split from groin to chops, a flood of carrion beetles in the bedsheets. Your father, leprous and bleeding, rutting at a trough of beastly whores. The house you were born in, consumed by flames. There must be a correlation between trauma and lesion growth. These are not just side effects, these are the psychological equivalent of split atoms. The bomb made this century ours, let's use it well.