A black moth beats its dusty wings and orbits “the hole”– a voracious void
expanding like the feeding vacuole of an amoeba–a forever-busy mouth
seeking to fill its nothingness.

Shadows of objects, gathered for sacrifice, lean out from every corner of
the room and disappear into the breach where they are sucked dry. Emptied
out. Rendered invisible.

No finger of God reaches out to touch my hand. I am dislocated, detached
from any coordinate in space and time. Any feelings I have are imagined. I
have become a fiction of myself.

“To be or not to be” has become a real choice. I have exhausted all “to be”
possibilities by the least painful methods: narcotics, alcohol, women, even
religion.

Not to be.

I lean out over “the hole” and let myself go. For a second, I feel as if I
am hovering, but I know that I am falling.

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