From the inside out, these are my layers: bad, good, bad, good and now- new - bad again. They attach beneath my skin, nested one inside the other like Matryoshka dolls, anchored with a pin through each skull at the top. They ring like a bell, scream and peal, complain, when layers and outsides clash. Beneath the layers, there is nothing: unbounded emptiness like the equation of the universe inverted so that one equals zero.
