I create pornographies of Being in the Cartesian Theatre of my mind. Tell me how memories become X-rated—steeped in devious, deep red desire. Your love is like the gold choker I buy on a rainy day in the city of dreams. It is an odd year. Scattered. There is a song in the Parsi boy’s film that becomes my heart’s favorite sound. In August, an IV is threaded into the vein of my arm, and the veil of Maya hangs over sickly white hospital sheets. I read about Krishna and how He comes to save Draupadi when no other man will. I dream about God walking among mortals and sparking a war no one will ever forget. Perhaps this is sacrilege. Or just thought set free, doused in brown. I want the world to see the brownness. I drink red wine in a foam cup and look around a room that will keep me for now. There is not a single person here who looks like me.