154e001>It is now. I begin. Scalpel, please.154e001>
154e002>Not a drop of sweat trickles down my breasts or sides154e002>, and 154e003>as if a dream I feel a smooth-edged razor tenderly slicing in154e003>, the heart pitter-patter (is that my heart or the octopus’?) and 154e004>my bare hands enjoy the sensation of grazing against the bare flesh154e004>.
154e005>And so the daughter is orphaned again, and the daughter is not a void but a gap between spaces154e005> — 154e006>spaces that correspond to claps of thunders, of melodies, of holy teeth grinding, clapping154e006>. She is not orphaned for she has her Father who art in heaven 154e007>but he does not hear her for he has orphaned many — voices of tongued creatures like claps154e007>.
So does she follow? 154e008>Or as an orphan does she wander within herself, her body emblazoned and orphaned and wandering and what has she become?154e008> She cuts into a flesh that is not hers but of the octopus, into a flesh that is of the octopus but also of her, and 154e009>yet it is not her own flesh that she cuts into154e009>. 154e010>But if it is not hers, why does she cry out in pain?154e010>