There's no sullying its consternation of him in her, her in him. A downy black of exquisite precaution...pops its ruffled heretofore and floats. As if a night cocked back its neck to calculate the trauma, longingly poised as a swivel of mottled blood. The black swan's eyes fork some bygone coruscation to their very top...as if in the throes of demonic rapture. Whereby reality's moments of lucidity seem to catch frozen frames in want of editing. Thereupon...as there it is, as there it goes...the black swan subsumes, wears the guise of regal unnaturalness. A betokened freak loosed...loosed...so...softly, at maximum indifference...O black swan.