I will spend my future in a hospital of my own design. I must construct a convalescence as I have made myself sick. In the sick-making though, I have not really made anything. A mood maybe — a disposition. So how am I to build myself out of a mood?


Incarcerated as the cud of that ill-digesting cow that is the world, what else am I to be but bad. Whatever I chew has been chewed before and made sour by that bovine sluice. Therefore, inside I am bad. I am taken in. Take me out with the trash.

Syndicate content