MY HANDS ARE SCREAMING. THE NOTES OF MY FINGERS SLIDING UP AND DOWN AIR SCALES—ESSENTIAL MATERIALISM. I WAS. I AM. IF NOT, WHY HANDS? VOICES GROW FROM MY FINGERNAILS, ILLUMINATED SOUNDS ON THE SKIN OF A MUTILATED WORLD. MY PALMS OPEN—BECOME ELEMENTARY MOUTHS. WHAT I SEE: SPIRALS, SPIKES THAT PERFORATE THE AIR. MY SCREAMS: SHADOWS CLIMBING CITY WALLS. MY SCREAMS: HEAT LIGHTNING ARCHING ACROSS THE SKY. I AM SEMAPHORE, LIGHT HOUSE, FINAL AND PITILESS STORM. OPEN THE DOOR BEFORE I BLOW IT DOWN.