The plot of our life sweats in the dark like a face
The mystery of childbirth, of childhood itself
What is it that calls to us?
Why must we pray screaming?
Why must not death be redefined?
We shut our eyes and we stretch out our arms
And whirl on a pane of glass
An afixiation, a fix on anything, the line of life the limb of a tree
In the hands of he
And the promise that she
- Patti Smith