The interstice folds like a tiny napkin around me and I am cornered in her starched ways- I wait and she waits longer. From above the marching steps of a different body, the parade of the misguided and I am sour like times unforgiving eyelashes- I am awoken by the morning drum, the questions, draw the cover and the question still persists. The stairs here must be dipping from all the up and down, the mornings preparing to prepare for another night. Yes I said yes ok and the door slams shut. It is home if I wish it to be but it is more, a canyon of pomp eroded- follow me to where you cannot escape from, where silence reigns on the throne of collective years shared in agony, where feet are severed and tongues removed- but honey I love you like bubbling, gurgling bathtub water! I have seen the headless giraffe there; blots of tears corrode upon her antiquated skin which falls a little further each year. In a hundred years, if I had a hundred years, I wonder could I clearly express the world as I have seen it, as I have tried to know of its bemusing ways. I am as the world has made me but still I understand nothing of the world, and a hundred years later will be nothing as well. Without love there would be love but it would be called something different…