from To People Who Sometimes Read

Something never before explodes, try training a man to lay down and sleep. The stars are like that, they will never arrive. Once again there appears to be no one in the house. My room is on fire, from one lit thing after another. I turned my skin down and showed chrysalis was an Eden thing. Help me. I’m done with anything that seems meaningful, why invent when there’s no way to undo the deep recesses of already formed thought. Plagiarize— make an artificial womb.