I'm going to wash my belongings and pile them all together in the same room. I'm going to shut the door and allow them to become familiar with each other. Then we will go to Mexico. I will eat biscuits. I will go outside. The sun will look dazzlingly light and secure, and I will give it a new name. You will introduce yourself to me as Iris. You will pick up your white stick and take me out into the desert. We will hunt for things, holding our guns and looking through our sights at unimportant things. Your rainbow eyes will fall on me hard. My body will wake up lying in your bed with my head on your chest. I will tell you about the time I washed all my belongings and went outside. You will tell me about the snowball effect, that it is not an accumulation or gathering of speed. You will tell me it is an explosion. A firecracker of cold white powder fanned out across the pavement like the eyeless spread of an albino peacock's tail.
The Journey to the East