What would you call the home which sits, simple, in reverence of fiction, sits in reverence, on two knees and a nose sniffing ***** bones? What would you call a thing which makes, a thing which creates meaning, much less, than it ***** the meaning away?
The past ushers futures inside that my parents made, and their parents made, and their parents, it seems I'm younger than I think. B o r n, i n t o a w o r l d o f d e t r i t u s . b o r n, into a worldoftrash.
Happy. Happy. Happy. My body will carry use once I am dead. I think I taste the dirt.