I’ve been trying to walk out of my room. Get fucked by the sunlight, some loose-leaf ethos to hold above all of their heads, or slip youth wrecked into my back pocket; to say I am done with this. Say I am wound becoming wound. Light, becoming absence, learning to house you. Say I should be taking health concerns seriously. Do more than lay bare on the hot sheets of a neon motel, where there are no windows, only mirrors, and I lay on my back, and I wait for the sun. I do, sometimes, think of you, or the problem of emotional experience under capitalism, like the fact that when I say you, I mean myself. I mean an urgent need. And you see, I used to swallow knives before spring told me I might hurt myself, that I would do better to trip on the privately educated blade of one political disenchantment. Listen to the radio sing its usual bruises, listen to the best-seller aisle of human malice; and try to tell me this is the best we can do. Because, fundamentally, it doesn’t matter. The Holy Virgin licks sweet mango juice out of my Navel; America raises altars to strip malls, and military-backed democratisation projects, Europe looks like America, and Europe looks dead. The following chapter explores the commodification of social bonds and identity in more depth. Today there are wolves in Burgess park, futility is lacing the cramped spine of my bed, and I’ve been trying to walk into a wound like wounds know how to be swallowed; and I think of the people and by people I mean myself, I mean the world has no windows, only parking lots; and I lay on my back and I wait for the sun. Because fundamentally, it doesn’t matter.