It begins with a whisper,
not of air,
but of policy,
spinning.
The wall is old.
Painted over promises,
layered thick with
“later,”
“not yet,”
“it’s complicated.”
The drill hums, a mandate,
a motion passed in tired rooms,
a push into what resists
and always has.
Plaster flakes like paper ballots.
Behind it:
wires crossed,
beams bowed from holding too much weight
for too long.
This isn’t demolition.
It’s inquiry.
An attempt to find
what’s been hidden in drywall sermons
and insulation thick with slogans.
The silence after isn’t peace,
it’s waiting.
A breath before someone asks:
Who gave permission to open this up?
And someone else answers:
No one.
We just did.
May 18, 2025
May 18, 2025 at 2:10 PM UTC
It begins with a whisper,
not of air,
but of policy,
spinning.
The wall is old.
Painted over promises,
layered thick with
“later,”
“not yet,”
“it’s complicated.”
The drill hums, a mandate,
a motion passed in tired rooms,
a push into what resists
and always has.
Plaster flakes like paper ballots.
Behind it:
wires crossed,
beams bowed from holding too much weight
for too long.
This isn’t demolition.
It’s inquiry.
An attempt to find
what’s been hidden in drywall sermons
and insulation thick with slogans.
The silence after isn’t peace,
it’s waiting.
A breath before someone asks:
Who gave permission to open this up?
And someone else answers:
No one.
We just did.
We could drill forward, but where's the battery?
