My body is a vessel within which colorful and colorless women dwell in distress. All of them have something from me, from you, from us. They unravel themselves within me and conquer my inner spaces. Fill my void. Empty my mass. They tell stories, jump around and cry. They take off their shoes and lay their pearls onto floors dirtied with mud and gold. They sniff broken feathers and taste their own thoughts. Each of them has her own gait. All of them meet at my center and then explode out in space. I see their pieces on the walls, the ceilings. Their intestines linger from fine threads while grieving through an aria over their dead children. Their souls are cleansed. Some of them have never given birth. Some of them will never give birth. Some of them will be buried to the neck and wait for the clock to strike nine. Five past nine. Ten past nine. SHOW TIME!