It is not. What you think. It never is. She is here. In front of me. Now. Upside down. The hanging (wo)man. Hanging. From her name. Her elbows. Adhere. To a flat plane. Her head. Is hanging. In turn. From the ends of her fingers. Her skin. Indents surprisingly. At those meeting places. She is old. Her mouth is thin. Her skin is thin. Her hair. Is thin, dry and brittle. Her eyes are thin. But. Gleaming, blade-like, compressed. Slits of ineluctable seeing. Piercing seeing. Through all. Everyone. She is. An old woman. (Still) fucking the world. The word. Doing. Undoing. Redoing.
We waited. And waited. Until it was our turn. We climbed up the outside of her tower. The winding iron staircase. Ringing under our tread. The height. Made. Me. Nervous. Until. We came to the top. To an open plateau. Two chairs. Four massive. Distorting. Mirrors. Showed us us. A place. There. Up there. Of introspection. And inspection. We were level there. With a sixth floor window. All eyes were looking. At us. The mirrors were looking. At us. All that space concentrated. There. The point of a needle. We came down through the inside of the tower. This time. Unseen. The metal. Singing again. Passing. White marble hands. I touched the touching. I had to. We left the tower. And walked back out into the immense hall. (chaos)