During the sacred penultimacy of the crucifixion, that’s how his arms were—wide open, his palms nailed to a length of unfinished wood, as innocent and vulnerable as it is possible to be.
“God, he said quietly. Isn’t the sea what Algy calls it: a great sweet mother? The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea.”
Joyce words the world. Miles Davis disdains applause. Picasso cubes a face.