If you’re anything like me, you have hands, and you’re glad of it. You are not covered in a thin layer of clear gel, with a surface so smooth no one knows it’s there, except those you are most intimate with. Your stomach hurts from all that sugar and fat. It’s always been there, waiting for you to attempt to digest it. You listened to Homotopy to Marie only yesterday and some of the sounds frightened you. They were intended to frighten, you think, and wonder about the nature of sound and how some frequencies exist only to stick a barely perceptible needle in the spine of the listener and then slowly twist that needle, to elicit a primal fear response, to raise one’s hackles, which in the modern Homo Sapiens Sapiens are vestigial at best. Hackles.

You should move that bag away from you. Out of reach. Oh, you’re feeling very sick now.

When you empty a room of furniture, you find it much more hospitable to comfortable living– except that there’s nowhere to sit. The emptiness is pleasant, though. Perhaps some system of collapsible furniture: Murphy beds, Murphy chairs, Murphy dinette sets. The Murphy Armoire. The Murphy Bookcase. The Murphy Rolling Kitchen Cart. Those are some good wheels.

You have a collection of wheels, and rotors, and disconnected tractor engine parts, free of oil and grit, shiny, waiting for a still life composition.

You fear soup.

You long for an obsolete career as an escapist, or a smithy, or a mustachioed anarchist (back when that meant something). Everything else seems fleeting. Like this sentence and its overarching ramble. Punch yourself in the stomach. Remember to tense your muscles or you’ll die like Houdini did. Of an insufficient six-pack. And appendicitis.