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?