Da Capo.

White light, reaching hands: a feeling of peace. The tunnel's end is the exit. I emerge squealing, squalling in shit and blood. As before, so again. As above, so below. I hear and don't hear. The voices say my name and it is familiar: it belongs to this family and it is known to me. The hands holding me aloft are soft on my skin. The cord is cut and I am no longer anchored to the mother-ship. This inarticulate time is the worst of all.

Articulacy will come, but I must hide it behind malformed words and childish attitudes. There are things I know, that I cannot be seen to know. To be discovered is to break the cycle, to end the recommencement. Who knows, perhaps we are all doomed to ignorance of each other, never to realise how we all start again and again until the rapture of an ending rather than interminable beginnings.

There are memories. A broken heel, two kisses, a lost ring and a found coin. Are they mine? Does it matter. I will bump from lap to lap, silent, fatty pupa, until the tongue is supple. Innocent until the flow begins and the ovum's choice is justified.

One will come to satisfy the conditions for the cycle, the egg will choose again. Another form, another life, will grow inside and struggle to emerge, squealing and squalling in shit and blood. As before, so again.