Her form is dry until the advent of the new day prances in through
the window like myriad birds in flight. When the beatitude inherent
in that noblest of spheres touches her room and enriches the shadows,
a warm and incandescent substance begins to take form in her chest.
At first it feels kind of painful to her; kind of like a fault line rupturing
in a desiccated, desolate land of immense sorrow. Then the pain turns
into an inalienable ecstasy, and a rosary of delights unfolds in the
concentric seed of her heart of hearts. At this moment she feels
attuned to the first day of creation, the day when the earth wore
only the regalia of rapture, and she lets the substance spread
throughout her body like an emerald breeze. Joyously, she jumps up,
runs to the kitchen, cries into a cup, drinks the profound elixir, and then
conquers the day with the first smile.
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