My ribs pulled open like the casing of a soft shelled crab and I am now
looking, dazed, into the center of my body. Beneath my ribs is a white meat,
frothing forth, and my soul crumbles yellow and dry to the floor. I try
to close my ribs with my hands but my arms burst at the seams; strangely
enough, I am humiliated, not terrified.
Their hatred of me is immense: I am being steamed, to be eaten whole or boiled, like an egg.
Wait, I say, wait. The body has its own trick. Step back.
If you crack the egg yourself, you will only get the raw yolk, the clear slime of white. But if you wait, I can show you something never before seen: the slime miraculously constructs itself into a creature of muscle and bone, wings. Then the body cracks open and we have myriad souls, odd brilliant birds ceaselessly flying because they have no feet.
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