Whenever I see large breasts on a small woman, these days, my mouth falls open slightly. If she's walking down the street toward me it's a little painful to let her pass, once I heard myself very quietly moan. And on a train that time--she couldn't have been more than twenty, tall and willowy--the motion of the train jiggled her breasts steadily like two panfuls of water, I watched them slosh in their tight skins and a great sadness came over me. I am so tired, and thirsty. I want to suck sweet, hot milk, with the salt silk of the human woman along my cheek. I want to be a baby, I want to be small and naked, or with a dry diaper, in loving arms with the nipple in my mouth. I want to work it gently in its lax, nursing state with my gums--I do not want teeth yet, not even the day stars of teeth-to-be, I want to be soft bone, bendable, as if I had come out of the womb maybe not days before, but a couple of weeks--I want to be a capable baby, conscious of bliss, of the new milk streaming out of the breast like the music of the spheres. And I don't want it to be my mother. I want to start over.