spotted at n11th and berry, brooklyn
I stretched out in the grass, my skull on a large, flat rock and my eyes staring straight up at the Milky Way, the strange breath of astral sperm and heavenly urine across the cranial vault formed by the ring of constellations: that open crack at the summit of the sky, apparently made of ammoniac vapors shining in the immensity (in empty space, where they burst forth absurdity like a rooster’s crow in total silence), a broken egg, a broken eye, or my own dazzled skull weighing down the rock, bouncing symmetrical images back to infinity.
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| — | Georges Bataille, Story of the Eye |
