The girl I call Alma who is so white

    is good， isn't she？ Even though she does not speak，

    you can tell by her distress¹ that she is

    just like the beach and the sea， isn't she？

    And she is disappearing， isn't that good？

    And the white curtains， and the secret smile

    are just her way with the lies， aren't they？

    And that we are not alone， ever.

    And that everything is backwards² otherwise.

    And that inside the no is the yes. Isn't it？

    Isn't it？ And that she is the god who perishes：

    the food we eat， the body we fuck，

    the loose net we throw out that gathers her.

    Fish！ Fish！ White Sun！ Tell me we are one

    and that it's the others who scare me，not you.