Overview

This book is not about baring the body, but the being. Not about truth as a statement, but as a silence you can no longer avoid. After Nobodiness whispered the presence in absence, after Nothingness held the weight of lightness, after Nowhereness mapped the unplaceable-comes Nakedness, a final unraveling. These are not poems. They are skins peeled off thought by thought. A slow dance of ego's evaporation, of masks disintegrating in the sunlight of honest self-seeing. Somewhere between the base and the crown, between survival and surrender, the silent serpent moved. Call it kundalini. Call it the current of becoming. This book is what it left behind. It would not have existed if shedding happened all at once. But it didn't. It took four books of spontaneity. This is the book that stayed when even the author disappeared.

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