Learn to experience ruined materials. Learn to shake dust from the dreamscape and arrange statuettes into gangs. Learn to lean on the hillside of garbage bags. Learn to be graceful, even when love is scarce.
The weird equations of my clothes take shape on the hard ground.
This place is not what it seems.
Even the air is restless.
Only dreadful fairy tales remain after the horrifying hands of the night have stolen everything else.
Dreadful geraniums stink up my dreams.
Theirs is the odor of a lost generation.
Theirs is the perfume of dust.
This is the noise you make when you break the surface of the water.