I nurture the creator in you; the little god that throbs to be master of words and colors, lines and notes. I watch you give birth to it. I see how it squeezes out of your brain and crawls across the floor- all ****** and wet. It's alive and glorious and grotesque. You're immortal- a giver of life. I hold it to my face, and breathe in the smell of rain, pine trees, and desire. I kiss its fur, and taste the fires of hell, cardamom, and oysters, raw and sweet. I feed it a bowl of saffron threads, soaked in milk, stare into its wild black eyes; I can hear it hum a tune in B flat minor, and I wonder, whose seed is this?