That face. the Face. And it looks and it looks and it looks. Only Moscow. Only in Moscow do the boys know his gaze.

It hurts... So, it should.

What can good think about bad?

Maybe not think. My face also, it's not me. I'm not inside even.
I'm more, But not by being there in the first.

His mask then.Then it is His face. Do I talk? It cannot move.  Oh! It may cry myrrh, dripping into pools under its visage. 
But its face, watching his thoughts. Oh the glory!  His thoughts, one day solely, connecting and flowingand going from my mind. Mine? Never.  Only his Logical, Logophallic? Logophilogic prose.

How exciting what my God may create!

No, really.

You have that part that thinks, even when you think not. But now? Is it the well of inspiration, bubbling acorns to a delighted Salmon of Knowledge. Fíos ann. Is she still there?  But he left. 
But now this fountain-wellspring is also the fountain of immortality.

A wellspring of possibility.

It creates gods only tongue, his son. Beauty,