The weather in this room is eel-black, a gel-like ointment.

It is a cream-like substance the exact texture of death.

It lives, like a dream, inside the body.

I have tried but I cannot get it out.

I am showing you the history of life through a series of unrelated gestures.

You can talk to the dead just like you talk to the living.

There is a blonde field and dark river that seams along the edge of its forest.

A fracturing, television-like static.

Glitter and beads, animal, mineral. Memory as a form of matter.

I have an accident every five years and one year it won’t be accident.