The first half of any day is spent vibrating with the sound of recycling bodies.

If you don’t know how to listen whatever god says is what you must do.

Three generations became glue today. It smelled like nothing. No one noticed.

Finding out you loved someone enough to become sick for them.

Plants, inimitably, still grow as long as there is something resembling soil.

The second half is spent eating what we grow if we know how to bow down.

Choose the midpoint. Choose which hosiery can be the most tightly wound.

A number of eyeballs make broth for soup. That actually did smell good.

The whole day is spent waving goodbye to people marching in the street.

Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye. I love you all. Limited adhesion glue.

The last footage of me is my fingernails becoming trees. The grove exists.

Neighborhoods of a future age in which I am a soft ghost in the canopy.