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It looks like a luxury, and it is. I wait for the simple reason that I can. In common arithmetic, the chain is visible. I walk in an open air confessional. Rather than amass, I continuously disperse in the gaps between molecules, in solitude.
It is possible, though not logical, that this will devastate the tribunal, but when I see the inside of my own face, when I sense the slippery taste of tamarind on my gums and the sting of wet smoke in the lining of my eye, I hold your picture to the tip of my nose and lose focus until your body becomes my own.
