When I am with you Buster, it as though I am with
myself and I sing, myself, innit.

Let Rothko be jealous, I keep no account of
goddamn lamentation.

I have known so few experiences and yet:
I know: I am Kaiya. A kosmos.

To be here, living, to be here
alive. I am: many.

I am top and I am bottom and I am all up and
in between that shit.

Through me the afflatus surging and surging, through me the
current and index.

But what is it to know, Buster? Tell me:
what is it to know?

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