… a depressive writes about the future and everyone laughs at it. I am dead because I am stupid. Here my lip, here my head. Pull one to swallow the other, to get it just right. Precisely where value is ascribed is bitter coldness. Chest framework analogues a passé impasse. If I were not impaled by the ongoing urge to get it out, I would have liked to share with you more about the experience of straying from one text to the next sext.

No, the real drive is trying to get it just right. Literally.

Engorged breasts sway a brain or two.

It’s disgusting. By the authority infected in me,

I pronounce it …

… it will be short, it promises. It reads, any version of the human is haunted by a disavowed loss, and no version of the human can fully overcome this disavowel. The total liquidation of the social and the subject and its environment and its completion is not fully complete. It is why I continue to write.

Why do you sound so bitter, it asks.

It is exhausted and waiting for the right opportunity to move.

Sure, but it is also fortified, not unlike a castle, not quite breaking the bonds on any holistic scale.

Well, can you relate to it while kept at a distance.

I hear the sound, not of loose change, but dollar bills. The poet, summoned off the streets, stricken by the privileges of civil society.

Why is he begging …