My divination was perfectly accurate. Unsurprisingly. Aubergines shine on the counter. Aubergine aubergine aubergine.

That reminds me of an acquaintance of mine called Aubergine. Last night was spent in a spell of lunacy, Seamother's most ambiguous gift, but I felt that Aubergine could understand that, that some understanding passed between her and me. Not that it eases the lunacy.

Sonic Youth sings: "Modern woman cry./ Modern woman don't cry."

The devastation is already beginning. I had a dream about cookie-cutter sharks, how they came to take away perfectly round bites from my flesh, allowing the light inside to spill out into the unforgiving darkness. This is not what I want, but it is what I must be.

My entire existence is not what I want, but what I must be. I must even be such that I don't want to be what I must be. I want to want to be what I must be, but I don't. I can't. Today as I bathed, I began to feel the demonic and perverse desire to bang my head against the basin's sides, as a protest against all the contingencies of the world, the happenstance of its existence. But perhaps the lunacy was still wearing off.

In the old days, Prometheus would have his liver torn out every day only to regrow it fitfully at night. But those were the old days, before his liberator's father was rightfully deposed. Nowadays, faceless golem gods culture titans in seedpods for the nightly harvest of all their immortal viscera. I've been thinking of tending such a garden for myself.

Blood in the water, and here come the sharks, like me, ravenous.

"Cry. / Don't cry."