It’s hard to tell if there is something outside the window, but a
chronic curiosity forces you to draw in, wind, people. It’s hard
to tell how it happens, but you lean back in, into the shadow,
and all senses are suddenly on DELETE: Suddenly you can’t
remember why you leaned out or in, or whatever you wanted,
you feel most of all like 17 kitchen appliances not bought nor
paid for, like a worn-out sack from Woolworth’s you’ve put
away and later forgotten: It’s hard to tell how you do it, how
you find your way back in, between everything you can’t
revive, yourself, the kitchen table, and a single traffic accident
you hide under your chest.