Unmani

Is our horror now more about the dissolution of the boundaries or being entombed by them? We’ve felt somehow thrice at a blow, so: diffusion’s angst and enclosure’s angst and angst’s angst—masticated in upper and lower bestial jaws, what will you not do?

Anything, so long as it be an option among nihil-acts; nothing, so long as all be non-act: serene, noble-gas.

Angel, beat thy wings—we ride thy gales twixt byss and abyss. A spark from a master’s anvil-beat sears all-flesh all a-kiss, firing clay for thy pipe’s reedless tones—raise it lord-ly in sur-prise, giving ghost to it: be it not someone or anyone, dread beloved, who is?

—B. C. Harris, Saint Valentine’s Feast, 2026.