Mary walks in reciting some self-reflection. The ego loves to make us into a project. Like you’re a tragedy remembering itself. Like you can keep a parasocial relationship with your appeals. What I was saying is you don’t have to refute yourself just to feel something. You have still a fantasy for exile. Whatever you want to have tomorrow. And of course, this. There’s always this. Even when everybody comes in lousy-headed and feeling so free. That’s when you take a hammer to every mirror in the British Museum, ask someone to cry with you. Say I would like to be saved now. But that’s no one’s responsibility. You know that. Everyone knows as much. Still I can’t help putting all my favourite things onto the train tracks. At the busiest time. And for you, it’s probably getting repetitive. Did I tell you where I came from? Can I ask you what you’re thinking? It’s another one of those days. The murmur of contextualisation. Letting the moon scream profanities in the spirit of trying. Twenty dead pigeons everywhere.

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