There are quiet depths of chaos in us. And I pray to this formless disorder that exists before the threshold of judgment, before the man-moulded casts of morality, before being is frozen into a word, and in that moment we are finite and cease to be possibility. I pray on that threshold, born into, whatever distinction, cast upon us, forced upon us, where my sin becomes the only gesture to fracture the finite form, to touch the no-place before judgment, everything still possible, again nascent, exposed, alive.





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