Count the petals. Why are there twenty-three? Is the world not symmetrical? Is the world not ordered in a series of twisted pairs?

The flower opens as I write this, its yellow and white petals unfolding. What lies in its center? What is the trigger that makes it bloom?

she loves me she loves me not she loves me she loves me not . . .

(listen for the key, says the drowned sailor)

Tattooed on my hand, using the lines of my fate, of my love, of my life. Its twenty-three arcs. She gave this to me.

(answer say answer, says the white queen)

The last is the hollow gate. It is the inequality. It is the chaotic disturbance in the order. It is confusion of ego.

she loves me she loves me not she loves me she loves me not . . .

We made you, Blind Seer. We gave you life, burnblack Pain God.

"I will be alright if you kiss me. I will be alright if you hold me. When I see the great black light that shines in the eyes of animals. When I find you, I will remind you."

she loves me she loves me not . . .