There’s a manner of being where you swift like a skimfish across the molecules. Burgers and pill parties. This is my preferred method: a revival fleet of nostalgia curled up beside the toilet. A blood stained hanky in the denim. I don’t want to wear logos anymore, I just want to join the wallpaper for a long discussion about pattern recognition, my new religion, a premonition of innocence that hunkers backwards, the first slab of meat caught in my teeth. Maybe a tattoo of a unicorn or something as stern as a nurse. There’s a box of discarded ivory in my nightstand. I wonder how many wishes I’ve lost to the offhand.