These smithereens I – our little segmentations, clearly visible, emerges as human bodies, as the mood to fill your apartment with liquid and enjoy the city straightjacket-ed (our apparatus of production), which can only swift over dissilence narrowest at the shy white nothingness, some morphogenesis of k-drips mustering glassed perceptions all ourselves at 131 McCormack, where micro-distinctions are made moons in the ropework of her mouths, so I wave-like and alive: “Alberta,” shining sex deposits in one-hundred-billion touches of tar sands ceasing to exist – inhale and reside, clumps ‘o headless as our medium; they materialize through market factors, this kick-drum, that Hoover synth, these endo-architectures largely fabricated along the oil plateau and its derivative products becoming-populated us worms together merging soft like us thumping carbon and engineered in intimacy to be with no need like us: lines of flight in your apartment where nothing happened and not merely nothing over the body but an economic sounding-out spiral or cycle like us ourselves us and her telephone line pooled complex and middle-class like us always been like us but still our openness – please – and the plumbing is whomever, or even, the dissolution.
