The sky feels like a k-pin doused with some other shit that’ll kill you— infectious harp.   ::   The space between language— shard of porcelain from the dictator’s house.   ::   Looking back— so many lives like veils undressed in the sullen dark.   ::   Names etched on my heart.   ::   Be grateful, the whole future isn’t a skull— blue silk in the grey matter like water from sand.