Hers is a place beyond that self-devouring dominion, a textualizing atmosphere suspending words over beams arched about the nave, the hub focusing her navel as contemplative accomplice. Description follows gesticulation to gestate as the emergence of spheres cries the umbilical of language from the Big Bang. Wrap your head around in it for awhile and the focus of her being written becomes clear. But these are not the days of Copernicus or Kepler. We no longer bow to histolytic centers of sacred space.
Divinity is a relativity in the march of history.
Birth cannot be contained as it is instantaneous, the moment requires wisdom. Intelligence cradles the eternity passed, the written an attempt to record what cannot be grasped. We do not question the not of before because there is no generation to speak of. And yet we persist in the non-second of Cause. All causes are lost clauses predicating gestation.