The Old Lady ages backwards in my brain, oscillating between Time and Space, with every crease of her smile, every roll of the brow, a chameleon of eras giggling like a wet cake: the Amoeba of Brunch, primordially voguing like an acrylic butterfly: striking the airspace of one arbitrary and epoch Life’s Royal Pond, flapping wings of archaic, yet hauntingly familiar, vernacular: The churn of her wingspan beating a vision of Time and Place long-gone, of Light throat-sang through a box fan, that remains the foundation of where I stand, resting just beneath where she hovers and whirs: Somewhere in between Old and Young, where age has no meaning, and Awareness’ fingers play cat’s cradle with strings of gut, where Fairness wrote no score, and Justice held no tune, plucking a drone of whale-song, a sonic lighthouse of nautical stealth: The One, that warms my Core, that threatens Its absence, that burns like hot coins beneath the skin, that kills like wet socks, that is blasted in the Lobby of the Womb, that was my Number that spelt my Name, that was called that caught my attention, that I can not yet understand, but glacially cruise through Lots and Life, humming in step, between the blades of the fan, strutting toward the guillotine with an apple on my head, proud as “I Am.”