you begin to draw me and I begin to hurt.  I know what a brain looks like and I’ve heard what I can only say sounds to me like many rats worrying as one to keep dry.  maybe I can tell you about my ears by telling you about my first bike and how its handlebars grew and grew.  did you know your grandmother broke nothing but was always on the lookout for pieces of glass?  anything she swallowed she swallowed to strengthen her knees.  some of your drawings seem to believe what they’re peopled to believe.  is being childish something melancholy can attain?  I rode to where the school had been before it was moved.  wherever it was, it was empty.  a father carried his trampled child up a slide and a mother identified me incorrectly by the back of my head.