You sound mature, the way you chat about pirate emotions and squeeze those spongy flower petals in your fingers. Your stony spine, too: I hear the quiet agony of its eroding vertebrae. My ears are super-powerful, from the weeks I spent drinking the salt water of the ocean and the invisible art it contains.
So I am the possessing party in terms of when people might ask about your cracked face, I know I can say that there is a hopeless situation concerning your failing spine. But I am adept at photographing the glamour of desperation, and I am the chronicler of your lush decay. It looks like a catalog for apparel, your deep drinking eyes atop that perilous figure in its cool white flesh, in the world I make for you in which the blacks are violet and the white is yellow. And the bird iridescence of sleep is some pointless abstraction.
