Now Dick and Jane are dead and I refuse guilt. Jane was just an idea, an image, someone else's desire. She was the Devanagari, the muse, but she is done. Out on that little red boat, I became the rat. I lived in the walls and ate through the rotten wood until you showed yourself. I was the wolfhound who howled, bringing the dog-catcher to the body lying under the moon. I was the fortuneteller who made you shake with fear. I am the phoenix who is made again from the flames and ashes that you ignited. I am myself again, pulled apart by sharp beaks and grated clean on the glittering sands, I am new and hard and strong, and this, at least, I owe to you.
farewell,
Chintamani
