It is a house or it is a series of compartments or it is a thought compilation of rough sketches of my mother and her black lab or it is that thing you do when you are on the cusp of a word but cannot seem to pull it from your mind or it is my grandmother’s conscience when she read the synopsis of Drake and Josh to her dead husband in a cemetery or it is that uncanny moment of bewilderment when you take an enormous shit and nothing is on the five sheets of toilet paper or it is the Lacanian gaze of some woman that makes you realize that yes, you are not lost in some sort of solipsistic conception of reality or it is that talk, that thick-witted phraseology of Mario Kart jargon at the dawn of time, waiting for some sense of existence or it is some sense of form, some sense of coming to terms with solidarity or it is perhaps a compromise in order to live and in order to come to terms with living.

19 July 2025