Too much thinking.– Kanjuro Shibata
Black. A voice speaking. a voice speaking of well-worn heat raptures laid bare “I bathe myself in the Night-blooming unnameable” she cried from isolation
You can’t have the curtains. I bought them anyway. My arteries are yours but not the books. (Except for you own) I’ll give you my teeth. Leave the records where they are. Will you take my spine for the armoire made of oak? What of the godhead? Maybe for my lungs in an overnight bag? Then there is the bed. The one full of treasure, the one where we bled. Take it, just...