Here, we are very graphic in a square way. I will stack myself on top of you repeatedly. Your brain is eggs in a square way. There are boxes in a limbo world. This box is filled with the chromosomes of bees when they are about to make honey. There are no limits here; the white casts itself infinite and I can tumble in a spine breaking rolling ball forever. When I break myself apart I am a watercolor painting, and this is very true. This is where I am holding you, sailor. In the ocean of my spinal fluid, three whales crest. In the magic ball of my egg brain we are graphic. We roll and roll. This is very true. When I take off my shirt it will be very dangerous quicksand and I want this to not be only okay and very okay, because there are circles inside of me that are perfect for hands in depth.
I bought a house in thunder, and when the vibrations of thunder hush me to death I find and find. I am sobbing to death. There are boxes in my basement that are full of porcelain angels, I am sobbing to death. I always always kept them, and they scrape and make distorted windchime noises each time the boxes move when they are held against my body. I carry them up the stairs and navigate around leopards that stalk me to death. I am literally obsessed with all the ghosts in this home and I named all my angels “ghost,” I named them to death. I kept named them a thousand times, each time they were ghost and they crumbled into a porcelain powder and I mixed the powder with craft glue, the particles still scraped and scraped. You always always gave me more porcelain angels, and in the Amazon flood of my soaking basement they float up and down the stairs rattling and scraping one another, each named ghost, another named ghost, powder reconstructed porcelain angels from you in my literal obsession. The lightning strikes and I am flashed to death.