What would you call the home which sits, simple, in reverence of fiction, sits in reverence, on two knees and a nose sniffing pubic bones? What would you call a thing which makes, a thing which creates meaning, much less, than it sucks 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.