He asks for the knife and I don’t want to spar so I tell him: we made a slide out of it. We made gravy out of it. We turned it into a homeless shelter for banana’s displaced by the sandstorms in your bedroom. It’s a new language. It’s something see through now, something you might hold to the light in a long car ride. It’s an excuse to not listen. It’s what’s left after you’ve eaten all the cheese and there’s still a thousand crackers on the plate. It’s one click away from getting it done. It’s stuck in an old contract it signed when it was young and desperate. It’s high fashion. It’s remembering you on fire with hope like every ******* dawn.