The screen burns my eyes out, so now I can see the true nature of in-itself, which is Mary and the kids flutter at the edges of their world. They have their mother in their pockets, in Iraq,
where hungry Americans eat history. All told, code is obsessive with maps, even when girls grow into and out of unbounded crags. In fact, the kids soak up any drop of pressure they can, and Mary just hates herself most of the time. Back of the mouth and through a rough void, the shellac hardens, and kids grow into and out of their world. Even if I'm blind, I still drown, just like you. Movies run backwards, movies we unfurled. The film on my eyes is where we're all trapped.
