The hut of Baba Yoga. Inside, she's calm in the lotus. An ancient jar
holds yesterday's urine. The sun shines through the windows and through
the windows of her ears and through her mind. The sun shines through the
airs of her hut and through the hut of her mind. The galaxy curls softly
up inside her mind, as she punches into the Astral Grid.

Astrid on the astral grid. You never go off the grid, baby. We walk
around with silver unreal umbilicuses, like vast space walkers — without
our spirit supply, we would quench and die. Some do their best — some
tie up the cord, some tie it around their kneck, some tie it in a knot,
and become robots of philosophy and pure will, 100% industry, all dumb-
compassed.