i cant remember which day i stumbled from in order to reach this one. this day of shrouds. there is only a shower, weird colors, a hole in the sky. could i, being silent, hope to be included in the inventory of inexplicable inventions? i am still thinking about death. im still thinking about ghosts. the bathroom, made of fog, renders me surrounded. and yet i dont feel anything. i feel myself blinking. the water goes away and i move over and away from the tile. i walk into the hollow drill of the hallway. i am aware of a threshold: an open window at the short boundary, far from me, transmitting words across the carpet, which is camouflaged in stains: i had a dream i could buy my way to heaven. when i awoke i spent that on a necklace. an ecstatic, vibrating cloud spills through the window. its carnival accents are flickering on my black eyes. then my eyelids seal together, come open, close again in instinctive, ignorant grace. i turn and go back to my room. there is sand on the floor and an outfit laid out on the bed. i examine the clothes before extending my right hand, sifting fingers through the fabric of the t-shirt, which is knitted, striped, has long sleeves. then the clothes wrap my skin... its dark radical shapes. the skin wrapping the muscles. the muscles themselves are crammed into something like cellophane. the cellophane the only thing that speaks.