An Animal Unfit for Living Unmolested

I find the heavens beautiful, I find the earth so too, the seas and the ground, the furling of water and gas, the bright distant points of our isolation. I take comfort in the swinging pendant traffic lights, the slurry of wet raw flour. I am programmed to this language, and can only voice my rejection of it in the same language. This is the power of diaspora, the difficulty in finding alternative. Let us send messages to the half-existent. To excuse oneself, to claim not knowing the future, is inhuman. I am so worthless that my body serves as brick, conscripted to build up my prison until it is time to lay my own body down for the walls. It is mechanical, snipping into the loop of every lace, separating from every link the cold wrapped bud. At first the skin is thick and bright, then darkly collapses. Nothing keeps its shape, nothing stands itself upright, we keep sliding apart into smaller and smaller components, and it is in the air above us now, we do not mingle with the outcome of ideas any longer, the energy that knows whether cruelty is disinterested or rightful. They are so happy while we laugh at them, their eyes enthused and shining while we trick them into hurting themselves.