An egg falls out of my hand, and I’m inside it. I flail around as a hatchling in my own guts. A fox mercifully takes me away in its mouth, ensconces me in its stomach, cherishes me in its intestines, releases me into its bloodstream and delivers me into its flesh. In the shadow beneath a tree, the day makes place for sudden night. I leap into the air to pounce onto it, but keep falling, into outer space, to finally land on a spark of a star. I burn my paws and leap off again, but not before it sets my fur on fire. I wonder if all that’s ever going to happen is my dying over and over again. It’s nice, but gets so repetitive after a while. When I’m done transcending from one form into another, what’s left? It leaves me feeling incomplete, left with a desire that’s unfulfilled, but for what? All I know is that I am burning with it.
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