That it can be more strange than true.
That it can be lunatic.


That it can be sacred texts permitting the interiorization of religious thought. Its legitimation.
That it can be terrifying.


That it can be the familiar becoming increasingly ambivalent, until it merges with its antonym.
That it can be the uncanny in some way a species of the familiar.


That it can be worse, more disorienting than an apneatic daydream. Oxygen-starved.
That it can be electric. Static.


That it can be insight at whose watchfires sentience periodically flares.
That it can be worshipped; fanned cultically into blazes.


That you can come to be free of the will of yourself &
that you can come to be free of the will of God & of all his works & of God himself.


That you can come to be above all created things &
that you can come to be neither God nor creature.


That you can come to be what you were & what you shall remain, now & forever.
That it can be that you read this & noted it down.


That it can be nighttime & cool to the touch.
That it can be reptilian. With a functioning brain stem.


That it can be scintillated. And nonetheless tragic.
That it can be essentially unstable. Speech-like.


That it can transpeciate, unfamiliarly.
That it can be neurochemical.


That it was written in the face of you mother by her mother.
That it can be hated because of this.


That she will never get into heaven, nor her mother, unless she become somehow man. Son of man.
That it can be God loves you no more than this. And then more than this.


That it can be collapsing into itself.
That it can be worse than gravity, worse than homesickness, worse than melancholia.


That it can be sexual.
That it can be knowledge.
That it can be shadow & that it can be air.