The email iris inside of her eye is the dark inside of a mushroom. The iris looks too much like the inside of a mushroom. The unlovely sorter of cadavers. She cuts herself - a tidy one with a knife. A thirster but vomition. Four years old and in surgery. A brain injury. He sat thwart-wise from me and dripped. He, the drip, the thirster, and all he sees is vomition. The hand-drill in under the sink. Under the skin. Again, the "k" jumps back when we want it to. Ants in the dough. He, the thirster, was a freak of temperament, of disaster. Her face was freaked with blood - o, the cadaver. How hard is it to remove a leg, an arm? Before I sleep, I imagine my arm's removed my leg. I have a cord around my wrist, and I believe something will pull me out my window and into the street. Then, into the sea. This story will be about ecstasy. It comes by addition or by subtraction. For once, we proceed from chaos to equilibrium. Her face surrounded by bevel gears, by vomition. Fraught with fastenings and bevel gears. The wet-strength of the gauze we use is impressive. I warn the surgeon. The surgeon warns me about trephination. Something about diabetes and the cure of it. The glasses were broken. The glasses were not broken, but the man died. His name was printed on the bow of his glasses. She opposed my opening. Here I am, clear and tight. I have found tasks. I have found discussions about the surgery of the head. The brain.