From " The Seizure Journals"

No space is wider than the schism within yourself.

Last night I became a fire without a flame, a wingless bird, an empty sky with no light.

When the seizure comes it is a subtle thing: a small quiver in my right foot, a strange pull inside my thigh. A strange sorrow rises inside of me. I lie quietly and wait for the storm to begin.

My body is no longer my own. It has its own fierce compass. I move towards a destination I have visited too many times before.

I fly over the world. I weep, I break inside of time. There is no mercy. With each convulsion, my body becomes an ungraceful marionette. Its fury is like an untold secret, a promise that bristles, or a lover with cold stone eyes.

There is a long shudder as my limps unravels from its grasp. The Death of Self comes not once but twice: first when I break inside the darkness, again when I open that last door in silence, lost and unhinged.

I return to myself as a fugitive, one who no longer has a place to hide. I move back into the phantom night, blackened and brittle, alone. I become more than absence and less than grief.

There is nothing, nothing, left inside of me.