I don’t know what I feel. I don’t know whether I feel angry or anxious or lonely or sad. Really what I mean is I don't know which feeling is at the root of all the other feelings. They’re like the little coloured pieces in the kaleidoscope, tumbling and tumbling over one another, making new configurations always out of the same thing. But I do know that I need to be inside that beginningless, endless howl. The one that unloops from the darkest and most loveless recesses of my body. The one that lives in places beyond places and encompasses the universe.

It feels bottomless, that howl. And maybe it is: the universal howl that keeps regenerating itself out of the universal pain. And at the same time it isn’t bottomless or universal, but personal and just very deep, so that dipping into it is like taking a thimble to the ocean. I imagine that if I keep dancing, keep howling ... if, finally, I drain the ocean ... if I drain the wound ... I will arrive at the bedrock ... arrive at the original injury that I suppose to be underneath all the pus and the festering and the roiling weight of water. But that’s a story. And probably it’s a little bit trite. The main thing is just the howl.