I solemnly watched the yellow that painted the sky above me. The auriferous architecture that blinded the darkness that swallowed the nights moon to the dust. The dusty smell of clover that rang like bells throughout this empty, spacious play. This play perched me in the middle like the sun and celestial anatomy of earth. I feel like 'god'. Lied on his red carpet of reign. "Oh, I reigned". I reigned. I reign. Gilded sky, I watched, glided sky watch. Who is king? This gold I watch? Or this gold that watch me? Or this cigar flamed in the mosque of my tongue? With its siren eyes of twist and hums of smoke in this fisherman's air. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. It's smogs of rottenness and life. I envisioned that "life" it was candy. Sweet like stick candy. Warm like a bath. Soft like sun's kiss. Special

like a mothers labia. But, nothing, whoever, whatever could be "life" like Kanya. I couldn't envision rottenness, for I was the vision. And, for Kanya Bun Ma he could envision it all, for he was everything, and everything he was all. He was the gold that splattered this play effortlessly, like a tilted painter with a brush. He was the sun and all the celestial anatomies in one, dancing in the orgasms of space and energy. He was god. He was this red carpet of reign and baptism. He was this cigar that milked thy dry mouth, like a mother's breast. He was the rottenness and life. For he was Candy, tall and short, every stick. Sweet. He was the bath that was always warm, and always stayed. He was the sun's first and last lips. He was the mother of all labias and uteruses. For he was Kanya Bun Ma. Kanya Bun Ma was everything.

Everything was Kanya Bun Ma.