I see straight lines
Binding giant rectangles to collapse
On the nature of what's below
Endless copies
Animals of asexual, mechanical, foreign disposition
I don't think I know what it means to be solid
To be perfect
But as much as I love almosts
and innocence
They're telling me to grow up now
To find a rectangle to waste away in
But my ghost wasn't meant to be form-fitted
I wasn't meant to be cubic.