The apparition of my youthful body casts reflections across a heap of days deeper than the sea. It is no more myself than the carcass of some animal now that I stand here with synthetic heart and blood pumping behind metal ribs.

It all started when I saw how wings worked and wanted them for myself. A haze rested on the low strait, the sun pressing down upon me, the first day I flew, the first day I saw the world from above — its sorrow and its joy, its darkness and sun.

My mind stayed aloft until nature took her course, and heart pulsing with precious hope I became a poet, recording wine drenched lines that would later dress up to masquerade as verses. How grateful we were for the turbulent drunkenness of love, lashed by that insatiable fire.

Over the centuries I have beheld herds of naked souls too numerous to mention. The gleams of these vanished spirits still run through creation’s veins, but they taught me only one lesson:

You may be the worshiper or the idol, never both.

Our myths tell us that knowledge is a tree whose mortal taste brings death, but not for me. I have toiled wearily in this wretched scrap heap since before the aleph came to these shores, inventing everything I need to continue inventing.

This entry is part of my journal, published January 21, 2014, in New York.