wednesday opens itself up as a dishevelled princess and i am walking all over her, stepping on fine lines of intestine, wandering knee-deep in this. we step into sunlight as one might a curtain, or a lover, or just some strange piece of meat that fell on the floor, and we ponder at it, and it ponders at us. there is no middle ground here, between black and white, only space and the way the days always end in an explosion. what is happening in the world? there is a rumble, the end of this latest inhalation, and i am left at the end of it, with nothing in my hand, with an emptiness. children seem drawn to that, and i place my head by their heads, and we make a level. we make a level for all the world to see.