I stick my thumbs in the roof, open up a hole for the future to appear out of. The house is awake with termites when I write back to V. An apology is a big dirty house. If only I could hold an email, put it in my bag, make it open up its beak and speak to me, I would open my hand and there would be a big white box fan.

V asks me to go for a walk through the garden of darts. As we walk I see little parties happening everywhere in the grass. Grass-sized men in jeans jackets lighting off bottle rockets talk of speaker wire, of engines inside engines. V writes in the snow with her foot, ... -. --- .--

What I used to know of violence was an open drawer. In the drawer was a book about birds. Now I plant these engines inside eggshells in the snow. I stick my thumbs into the roof to open up a hole, the hole keeps getting bigger, it’s a hole for the sky to appear, it falls apart all over me.

At the beginning of time every open mouth was a round thing spoken. In every walk stepped the seed of the fallen apart house. Everything used to be full of smaller versions. Now it’s a big racket: the parties and the bars, the green light of the garden, the kindness, pretending. I open my mouth, inside of me are termites. The hole I make is supposed to speak for me.

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