The soul is a fragile thing with the odor of honeydew and the consistency
of jello. It weighs anything from six to eight ounces. It is the color of
tripe or blood oranges. There are moments when the body becomes entirely
transparent and the soul is bared. It is the delicate underbelly of a hermit
crab dragged against the coarse sand, making its slow move from the heart
of the lover to nestle in its larger beloved. It is a transaction fraught
with difficulties. If it is damaged in transit, insanity occurs and the
soul takes on a greenish tinge on the edges. If there is a misunderstanding,
someone is left without a soul.

When this occurs, we are prone to accidents, bullfights, sadness.

In these struggles the soul itself is the minotaur; the body, the maze from
which it cannot escape. The body is kind but cannot allow the soul to escape;
what else would fuel existence? The penetrable body would deteriorate into
idiocy, reflex, Thebes. Without seven maidens and seven youths, the soul
becomes destructive, monstrous. The moment I wake, I eat. This is because
my soul is consumed by an intense longing. For what, I cannot imagine. I
dull the screaming of my soul by filling all my crevices with food. Drugged,
I sleep. I prolong sleep until I wake, bloated. I rinse my soul beneath
running water and I pray.

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