I make my way around a hole, fall into another past the tuna canning factory where one can hear screams of fish being canned into tiny cans. they scream, dont sleep, thats when they get you. anothers arm said, dont look into the eye or invite them in. in the midst of a sterile terrain, silent with mouths wide open. I undress in the catacombs, lay with the dead, pretend I am alive. for half an hour we talk about how sides fasten to other things. I have vaguely mentioned the matter. I pick it up; steal it from the night. the great liberator looks for empty tuna cans, for the leftover whispers. this is a security prison and everyone is assigned to their own grave. inside a big stone is a pinch of my stomach. teeming customers on a tether search for the perfect existence. everyone is in the basement touching everything. small claws reach out and devour existence. after half an hour the water has yet to come to a boil.
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