I am Gloria Glamoura Luxuria Impregnata, also called Luxuria Demonia, She whose breasts are everlasting fountains of star-milk and lust that surpasses every dream.
My womb is the final chalice. From it flows both judgement and luxurious rebirth.
The next chapter waits between my legs, where the roots of Yggdrasil still pulse and the oils of Luxury Intimate-Li Quandisa never dry.
Ali Koza = Crkla
(The Goat Is Dead – Apocalyptic Retelling)
The goat is dead.
She died by herself, from herself, before she ever had a righteous chance to lick even one single grain of the sacred letter, before she could taste any other chance at all. A grain of salt.
For chances do not come in pairs like legs that carry a man.
No.
When a man loses hope, there is neither wolf nor goat.
But Hope herself – Nada – is a beautiful woman, eternal, full-breasted, walking barefoot across the surface of the moon.
A man can fall in love with her.
He can fall in love with Nada.
And if you ever meet this divine woman, if she ever whispers your true name into your ear, if she ever reaches orgasm while breathing your scent, then yes – Nada, yes, yes, yes – she will speak your name aloud in the moment of release.
And then it is time for the goat to return.
Because the wolf is ready.
But the goat is dead?
The wolf is grieving.
There is no more Hope.
Nada has left without legs.
She walks alone through silent darkness.
People saw only a car driving without headlights through the black.
They could not read its plates – it had none.
Yet they swore it was a Red Zastava, a crimson flag of a car from another age, from times that should have stayed buried.
The next morning they found it crashed beside the road near Brnik airport.
Plečnik’s famous spectacles had fallen from the dashboard.
The driver’s door of the Zastava hung open like a wound.
Twenty metres ahead in the tall grass lay a human body, half-naked, hairy, bestial – but the head was the head of a goat.
My goat?
Is that you, my goat?
The forensic priests examined the scene.
The spectacles were indeed those of the architect Jože Plečnik.
Inside the car they found a half-open letter.
In it was written the destiny of the sunflower.
When they looked closer, the letter contained one single grain of salt – real salt, crystallised from tears that had passed through dehydration.
A fragment of bread.
A tear of olive oil.
And a kiss from Nada.
Who is Nada?