imagine you are hanging in the dark, balanced on a pin
imagine the inflated world glowing softly in the dark, balanced on a pin, awaiting the inevitable descent of the iron hand of god.
now you are in a glass case, and you are dressed in your own breath.
now you are speaking with a fingertip dragged across your own life. now you write and the words smear with their own slowly gathered meaning. they run.
if you sit in the closet under your winter coats, pull your knees to your chest, and flip through the album, you'll find only photos of strangers.
you cannot find your parents in the crowd. you cannot find your old friend.
press the iron to your face and drink deeply from the issuing steam. now run.