Perhaps this is the manner in which this babe saves herself. Because all that that babe senses outside of herself is nothingness. So this babe goes to him. His use of her makes her solid, hard, like bodies are intended to be intense, and how souls contain infinite mass. His brutal management of her wobblers encourages her out of her unnatural sleep. Pain is a voice of the spirit rousing itself. Ropes grow luminous in a mind gone dim. Flogging rectifies balance, every hit conspicuous, bright points like Christmas lights strung about her limbs. He decorates her like a tree. He dangles her from her stretched, aching mangos as though that babe is a darksome cutie. He walls her into her soft, pliant flesh and tastes her like a vintner tests wine. Made manifest on the eve of her destruction, the birthing of her body is greater quantity about difficulty than ease. And in her weightless condition of diseased fantasies, that babe have to be brought back to herself by the use of extremes. Ropes and belts binding her ankles, knees, wrists, arms, and neck are neither reality nor sleep. The prying open of her face hole with hooks and the compression of her wobblers betwixt steel rungs, anchor her in the kingdom of the living coz of dread and passion, the electricities of flesh.

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