I long to be interested in something – flower, brick, rat.Nothing hits home, not even decaying animals in art installations(see below) I used to love. This lack of interest is really a kind of astral fog, something dim and indescribable. From my window, neighbors preoccupy. Once the shape of a word in my ear would keep me awake all night. The trees opposite our house would kiss my cheek, drip lustily. You can see where this is going, can’t you. Once/now. Bloat and marbling, the flies, even the invasion of orifices is purged. Surely the machine is charged? Fact; shade and exposure make a difference to the rate at which brains liquefy.

 

 

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