I. Space; sequential, finite

I find it odd to think of words as echoing in my skull. I do not think of my skull as a cavernous space, a room that sound can visit. My skull contains a whirlpool, where various detritus, as well as a thought or two, can swirl and writhe ad infinitum. (One large men's black plastic work glove one dense mat of oak pollen one unblemished dead rat one white plastic bottle cap one smooth stick of wood.) I am myself a physical object that exists in space. I occupy something where nothing would be otherwise. In this way I am a placeholder; my body holds space for a moment, before it gives over to decay again. Death, decay, and darkness are the natural states of the world; life disrupts death, order disrupts entropy, and the day disrupts night, not the other way around.

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