everything is on display. I’m mapping measures from a framework and they’re pulling bodies from the rubble. my first friend from the city I’ve fumbled sends photos of the kitten he’s adopted. they tour the monarch round the colony and we show up to shower flowers over the waning flesh of an idea that stands against the heart of the values of the hill on which we choose to die. outside the station gates they try to make me sell my soul to a gym or a cause I might believe but won’t commit to. someone I work for is greeted at a conference like a prophet after crossing the globe sipping wine in a recliner over lands our taxes fund the death of. there’s footage of animals that don’t exist and apartment blocks caving in on themselves in seconds. I close the lid of one screen and open another to greet the stranger I pay to listen to the thoughts I don’t know what to do with. everything is on display. how much really matters?
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