Wherein the world shone golden because the fire consuming it was gold.

Wherein I am merely the connective tissue holding together a loose network of haphazard

    machinery.

Wherein I am the prosthesis for the prosthesis.

Wherein I am the assemblage.

Wherein I look into your eyes & you look into my circuitry.

Wherein my circuitry-tissue connects me to the bomb while I pour myself a coffee from a
             percolator in the safety & sanctity of my own home.

Wherein I don’t need to look into my circuitry for this to be true.

Wherein the hormones I am attempting to gain access to in order to change my circuitry are
             produced in the vicinity of the bomb.

Wherein perhaps even within the same structures.

Wherein perhaps even by the same actors.

Wherein the gold is my gold regardless of whether or not I look at it.

Wherein it burns.

Wherein my gears & pistons reach into one another, Cronenberg sexualizing the outcome.

Wherein there is smoke.

Wherein the burning is mine regardless of where I look.