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The Anti-Oedipus
The counterfeiters and the gradients of chiaroscuro had combined and emerged under the window of the Tinkering Machine’s pure-bred daughter who adores and reveals herself to the Sapphic wind chimes of a starry night, when it slips past the guards of adulterous moss, wet with dreams and the chemistry of power. She is the kindling of flight, and the breath-flower of random sorcery. She is the single most important clue...
“Indigo, my love, the divining-rods are prowling the gambling rooms, dowsing for light in its more arcane phases, where the safe-crackers and the wizards touching the witching stick for the violence of chance, are no longer bound to the tides of arrival and departure, having subdued the sudden whiplash of altered visibility for the roots of an ancient language. I become the bonfire of elemental rain... the mist of blood... the monolith of moonlight dividing the storm...”