from Scorpion Letters
I move very slowly through the pages the striations of this room. We live in a womb of sound. I am an animal, though I have no voice, no mechanism for freeing myself from the activity of these natal selves, these premonitions too obvious for shock operators. The form of the page is the form of night. We are useless when we waken. When our preternatural selves become dependent on trigger mechanisms. Loan me a payload, an uneasy breezeway. Can I withstand sitting here, meeting the like-minded— the ones intending to pretend?