[extract from Dark Wounds of Light, a work in progress, co-authored with Alina Popa]
I am a man. Without myself, without ever knowing what I am. Being nothing other—rarest of exceptions—nothing less than the great question swallowing itself in the mouth of your love. Being thus, I have no heart, am only the heart that I am, dark burning divine animal heart, alight with starblood and tremors opening new tombs on the ocean floor, more suns for worlds I will never know. Law above law unto itself I am. Unreasonably more rational than reason – wild. The room is filled with the nameless scent. Impurely pure, pure smoking incense of perfect impurity. Here I write dreams and dream writing to wake you from time-slumber in me, to circumscribe the universe sphere which ever holds my hand’s own open holding of this spirit organ, luminously before itself. This lonely self-lamp by whose dim infinity I cut words ever deeper into the blank parchment of night. Since mine is a dream of dream more than real, it never burns the hands, neither the fiery vessel, nor the stylus staying always warm enough to melt language like wax. Tablets of the heart, graven with the twin law of charity, be our simple two-sided screen onto which my virgin soul—never mine from eternity, myself more divine than He—projects the unutterable vision, protecting yourself behind its very view, whispers like light into the black secret of your eye a perfectly full spectacle of unseeable union. Asymmetrical oneness, harmony of so-sweetly lopsided twoness without duality.
Now suddenly it comes upon me again, the forever-memory of the time I found you. Vision no longer vision but the writing itself. It was outside the market, midday under a strong sun. That was the forgotten place where a shameless desperate embrace wrestled me into the ground of my own inexistence. There, prostrate before the gravity of our prostration, an alchemical melding of two crimson hearts, our supreme touching, joined me eternally to what every day tears me from the side of myself. I am not a man. I am the wife of Augustine.
 “In the liquid depths of crystal dark there burns a column of fire exhaling secrets whose smoke incenses everything” (Cartea liniștilor).