“I stole the jar.” And it almost destroyed her. Left to scarecrow in the madness.

An influence so life changing – it has to be viewed as holy destructive. Pure of heart, broken by life, floating down the river of love, with flowers of madness pasted sentimentally to her chest. Dying intimately again and again – as like a mill go round and round ranting after Hamlet’s beautiful hounds.

Death before dying. Life as an invincible sorrow. Love and death as a foul ball in free-fall. A sacred sacrificial magic – religiously (death-knell??) orgasmic!

Who the hell lives live that? Those infected with “the bug.”

Kafka and Burroughs, for instance, both strongly intimate about flying through time as a “killer” bug. Bugs in pursuit of life – dying at pain of orgasm.

What Haute sometimes calls with respect to “doing the math” – death by a thousand Cuts.