I have a belly full of ink — penultimate nausea. I swallowed something through my eyes, I think. The tensions between constellations arrayed my retinas’ red antennas with star starts. Now they are lumps in my core, bloated black holes trying to swallow indigestible quasars. My body does not disagree with the cosmos. Everything that disagrees with everything in space-time, in eternity, in our busy rumbling bubble of human vanity swirls and sinks here in my gut, fighting it out.