and so of ideas, spatial reality, badly painted angles and broken xylophones. i got myself tangled up in a wire woven head with gaps too small but for catching little bits of sullen air. come in, i say- we will sweep the floor with a devils claw broom in myopic fits of concern while wearing clothing stolen from the dead. i keep the memories in that corner, damp! for mildew hopes to chew them up so they no longer will rear up and remind me of the pleasant smell of men when they wake.