I wanted them to find me; I tried to draw attention to myself once or twice. Walked around with no socks or shoes.
But I’m no good at acting wild. My madness is that systematic kind. Mathematics. All the shapes fit. The colors match. Nothing out of place; most everything untouched. The spines of my books face the wall. In alphabetical order. In any order, so long as it’s in order. That’s the long and short of it. The distress of rest and routine. Twist tied and tongue whipped by logic and design. My logic, all this news.
I’d scream if I could open my mouth.
More about: Horse Lords, Matmos, Max Eilbacher
