“Sadly it could never be sorted,
what desire was. Though, it used to be
wonted that one gave himself over each time
to the cramped flight. That was the dream.
To study charts, now, that is something.
The consummate lines showing neatly
as rise, simply, an arc near the answer
to some question I’d posed, and light, very light.
Having reached nirvana, I’d keep myself nestled
in the lit strata of some stars, a sheet of carbon,
dense and billow in my high Fahrenheit,
a shroud. In all directions the light is smoothed.
Kept so utterly stitched, beyond idiocy
only insentience could follow.”
— Stephanie Adams-Santos, “The Insentientist”