I am the room encountered when nights fall into sleep-shade and dream lanterns burning in alphabets of timeless cradles—ladies and children wept by storm drains fall from a ceiling filmed dust cloud shaking movie hands with scissors and splotch taped against grains of granite planted sideways signs mistake lanes for lands and glancing over I notice what hasn’t begun, where smallness of a whisper waits to be seated in the palmistry of a calculation that can’t embed itself to sound perfectly instinct, but always close enough hot clothed in tedious corrections of alignment—tying a blanket of criminal designs against monetary functions for order. A type face value different than the exposed gas stations awaiting pulse from whoever can buy muffler attached engines which roam. These parts organic, as a sensation crawls to name a place or location in which anyone can enter and sit. Here is a chair without a name badge smiling from a corner and it’s holding out a textbook in the shape of a starfish wishing whoever sees it to smile, but little can people smile who do not know their mouths can move like tides of the ocean when the cycles of the earth pull a curtain close or a trigger to a gun on an assimilation of emotion. Who will distort the contorted control panels as they dig their digits into the waves of bio-engineered mechanical specimens, labeled as ingredients no one can pronounce, no one can understand—as most of us are consumed into a teleportation device in which nothing is spoken but merely typed along a sequence of textual fonts, keeping code keeping pace with surging necessity to speak exact to the contrary on whatever intrusive conductive regiments decide to enter and displace ligament by ligament, stealing every encounter before we can touch. Yet still between the de-feathered imposition of clones an advertisement intentionally splices between, undefined us, there is a space where these non-commodified parts can touch, touch as it is without, out on, to interpret through a filter of commercials what it means to have any activity in any moment of a sign. As temples were once built to contain the imprint of precise behavioral golden ratio in the book of eating and sleeping, they, replaced by the fabric of a screen and the codes which entrench education, a behavioral lion in a cage of kitchens and the gasoline-chair of night riding the spine to meet the spine of another waiting to become the ride of this other—a house children later and the circle continues to spin. A circle is also that which is not a stand-in for itself but an actual velocity of apprehension. There is nothing to correspond to the grass blade as it tweaks its way through, jagged, and immense, cold in the eyes of window-buildings, it cannot become a slave.