IN THE PLACID TERROR of ecstatic contemplation, revelation comes not by deduction or induction, but by disintegration and integration. Here, melting into the kaleidoscopic wings of a Butterfly, language laughs in a contorted brilliance, collapsing letter and number into the blazing Geometry of an Unspeakable Word. Here, in the dying and the being born, horns snap twisted white light off the thorny crown of a Dark Angel, who hangs upside down, crucified, in the pregnant substance of space. Dancing naked and alone, mythos and psychos are logical and the Morning Star still brings The Light.