My 7 faces are stacked on a shelf in the back of my closet. I try on two before I choose the softest of two evils. My eyes have nostalgic lens filters. In this reconstructed reality of marble and glass, I envision velvet cushions and burgundy shrouds. My name is a museum of sound fruitfully multiplying in the ears of angels. Across the street from my home, the Silence Store and Great Art Mart in a rundown strip mall. Delinquent ghosts skateboard on the crumbling parking lot.

Light shaped women promenade along the proletariat public space, a space defined by signs and porous desires. Water courses through me at 90 miles an hour, and the rapids are teeming with sizzling ideas. Poetry lives in the air. The crinkled dawn is so hard. Remember when she said, “I’m gonna leave you early for paradise?” It’s another day of you and me in ethereal dreams. The 90s pirhouette in my old house. My sister canoes in her mortal art. Time drags me towars death, but he pulls me with a balloon string as I ride in a laundry basket beside him, so I’m having literally the time of my life. I flow into Friday like a flower wilting its way through Autumn. At the end my seams are torn and my seas shorn in half like Moses has a bone to pick with my water personally. The fish here smell like failure. Addie swims through my synapses, pondering Walden Pond.