Pantera no longer remembers that she thinks.
She does and does, but no longer acts.
She has almost become one with her thoughts.

This rapidly turning mental carousel unleashes emotional storms:
now discharging themselves as euphoria,
then collapsing into sadness.
Apparent lightness —
and in the next moment, a neurotic dramatization of everything.

Always escalating toward the grotesque,
toward fanciful comedy.

A prisoner inside her own head.
Has it always been this way,
or has it only now come this far?

Head-births with arms and legs.

Like the animal in The Panther —
except here, the cage is interior.
Pantera.