Smoke (a form of memory)

from the archive

I exist eyes in a container. The container is a body. The body is me, buoyant, bobbing: an ocean of feeling, fantasy, fear. I pain. The pain comes in pings, against the container, leaving no trace but the inner recoil: the world’s messaging. In the container — the body — that is me, the temperature rises and falls. The eyes look around. They watch.