Shut off the valves, the paradoxical and problematic brain-chemicals die down to dull neon vapors, the howls of voodoo from the wayward priests and laughing hyena, the harsh thunder of a headache, a complex system taxed and surrounded by evening funeral flowers, a golden and ornate urn that draws a sweet nectar of angelic light, a pallid and circular face beneath the howling daybreak-shown madness of the pines, snow-tipped morgues and quiet cathedrals among the volcanic ruin of Iceland, the archaic cemetery among the coldest tombs on the oldest night, the perpetual sleep and slithering lava-fissures of Alta Vista, how we choose to sit in darkness; the writing factory closed until further notice, an attractive grace lay over the country field like a blanket of melancholy, a tourniquet of loss and unspeakable, unbearable mornings reflecting in the ghastly eyes of the coal-black phantoms and their arctic shores of dewy frost and spicy electric fences posing as eternal gates for the rupturing and pierced shade of the newborn sunlight.