. What would it mean to detransition? To revert back, go in reverse: back to a monster, to a killer, to a stone, to silence and its stain, to a pre-existing organic order (one that projects a memory of the inorganic, a falsified and fascist memory), back to before an incurable vascular disease, to alcoholism, to when “love” was a word and not the way in which the world was ending, a regression to “male fantasies,” to misrecognized ghostly aching Earth not reaching out for itself, not fucking itself (fucking “the other,” fucking over the so-called other), back to a pre-estrogenic state, a bulwark against an ocean of estrogen, a shoah ocean of trans-carcinogenic fish and sirens that no longer know how to sing, or they know but they no longer feel like it, an ocean going extinct, an ocean of last instinct, a state of flight, a state of deathlessness, in which the beginning was hallucinated over and over again, a beginning which did not allow for a beginning, which denied an ending, refuted a transition, to when the Earth wouldn’t gender you nor eat the longing dust of your femme dreams, away from a shimmer, away from a mirage, away from a baby, away from a corpse, back to Heidegger and Descartes and Augustine (and to other Nazis, also, naturally), back to the time before you knew what happened in the first week of November, 1941 during Operation Barbarossa in a muddy forest outside the town of Rovno, where your entire family was murdered, where an entire world was murdered and lost, a linear rewind of the retina from disorder to order, a detransition from entropy, a desertion from the ultraleft guerrilla army of the dying, back to the foco of the Marxist zombies, back to the position, to the posturing, to Che Guevara raping the family maid, back to before your name, the name of a pretty girl who hijacks an airplane or a Bedouin princess who inspires schizophrenia and an endless poem, a poem written in centuries and in a single night (not a princess, really, but the fey and ill daughter of a wealthy merchant), back to before the night they first said I know you from another life, back to the nights of terror and incomprehension, back to a canonical necrophilia, back to “Surrealism,” back to “biology,” back to psychiatric diagnoses, back to the anatomy of the present moment, back to Latin America, back to the future, back to the endless loop of fucking your mom and never saying “sorry,” never saying “oblivion,” never saying “in fact time is not a museum nor an Empire nor a hierophant’s authoritarian masturbation, time is not the coffee plantation where a campesino can be shot for eating an avocado, time is not the dawn of Europe, time is neither ‘black bodies’ nor Mayan prophecies, time is not an indigenous blank slate, time is not Barry Goldwater in native drag nor J. Edgar Hoover’s bimbofication fantasies, time is neither Ronald Reagan nor Bill Clinton, nor any other man (time is not a woman), time is the best president being the one who died of pneumonia after a week, time is the angelic transmission of a damaged past to a universal and mirroring dispossession, time is a knot of the heart, time is a week lying in bed, a month lying in a bathtub, a millennium lying in an oneiric grave, time is forgetting to forget, time is magic and the failure of magic, love and the impossibility of love, war and the abolition of war, or the transition from a war of the body to a war of the night, a war of power to a war of pure eroticism, a war in which everyone dies, and no one, in which the enemy is so ethereal she cannot even be loved, in which the enemy disappears in the moment of her apparition, in which the enemy can no longer give us anything, though she never did, really, she merely pressed her ear to our sobbing, she merely said ‘desire,’ said ‘seeing,’ said ‘Earth,’ said ‘nothing,’” a detransition like a single step backward from the extreme edge of grief, of fear, of death (now is the time of cosmic grief, of nightmare’s hospicing), a detransition back to an embryo of pain floating in an amniotic outer space with no mother with no sister with no memory with no dream (no finite dream of infinity) other than the dream of pain’s end pain’s abatement pain’s pain other than the dream of an eyeball impaled by the dick of a lumpen mystic femicidal pornographer, a dreamless and cosmicidal dream because it’s too much to endure, at the end of the day, it’s all too much…