There is nothing more private than you, Egg. You are pure secret, unbosoming not a thing. Who would guess that inside your smooth temple worlds queue up, chafing to be born through generations, to be birthed and birthed again? Who would guess that worlds queue up inside of me, too. Egg, for I am like you — inside, the life in me teems, unborn universes mutely jostling and pulsing; like you. Egg, I am pregnant with what might-be. On the outside. Egg, you are flawless — dumb Eden before the fall. But inside, in that wild oestrus un-eden place, you realize your prurient aptitude for Creation. In our hands. Egg, you have been a fragile womb. How absently we have dropped you, how readily broken our dreams, passed over our own disciplines and desires. How we fail to bring waiting worlds to birth! carrying you as on a spoon across our hearts’ lawn, cautiously, back and forth, back and forth, we ferry fevered plans, failing in execution. In the cove of my hand. Egg, I hear you whisper: “it is ail within, it is all within.” And I bend and whisper back: “Then let me in!” “No,” you shout. “Be strong. Enter who you are, enter your own body. There you will find a fruitful place. Don’t go off somewhere else! Don’t wander forty years in a desert! Think about this carefully: Consider this hand that cradles me — it is yours. This palm in which I wait, winking: it is all within, it is all within. Acknowledge me,” you tell me. Egg, “birth me. Birth your worlds.”