“The Golden Void” (2005).

I looked at her, and there were wings resembling the moon caught in a fisherman’s net and a neon on a shadowed boulevard, wings blacker than night, sweeter than honey – at once brighter than the sun and bitter to infinity – Wings that contained everything beautiful and immeasurable.

There were wings like mirrors gazing into each other and winking knowingly, amused. There was a cemetery bathed in emerald glow, and there was a garden where black orchids bloom beneath the full summer sun, while children squander time.

And there were eyes, millions of eyes illuminating her entire body. Iron butterflies perched upon her eyelids, which under the weight of solid metal closed again and again. The butterflies screamed.

The golden void turned, revealing its magical-garden splendor and black holes strung upon whips of purple nebulae, marked by the breath of volcanoes and the mad agony of desert worlds.

We became an arrow released by the trembling hand of dawn, which had stolen from the darkness the last cemetery diamond, and now, drawing its bow for the first time, shot a luminous arrow straight into the vagina of night, so that among the waves of the final illuminated orgasm it might return to its intimate tomb.

The golden void winked invitingly, one of countless stars in the radiant winter sky.