I am walking rapidly through striations of light and dark thrown under an arcade.
I am a woman in the prime of life, with certain powersand those powers severely limitedby authorities whose faces I rarely see.
I am a woman in the prime of lifedriving her dead poet in a black Rolls-Roycethrough a landscape of twilight and thorns.
A woman with a certain missionwhich if obeyed to the letter will leave her intact.
A woman with the nerves of a panthera woman with contacts among Hell’s Angelsa woman feeling the fullness of her powersat the precise moment when she must not use thema woman sworn to luciditywho sees through the mayhem, the smoky firesof these underground streetsher dead poet learning to walk backward against the windon the wrong side of the mirror.
