Part 1: Impossible Talks Impossible talks. Impossible geometry, the shortest distance across the expanse of neglected detritus, crusted plates, bits of paper shading every empty space between dusty clothes stained with sweat and soy sauce, grease and marinara. A chicken bone left in the gestating mess on the floor shows more life, is buoyed by the rising reincarnation of microbes until it reaches nirvana and dissolves into the carpet. Impossible talks. Cigarettes smell louder than they taste now. The clock becomes inconstant just a number that resurfaces every so often and yet this timeless place is dominated by routine. Does she stay up late because she doesn't wake up until the afternoon or does she lose half the day to her bed because she can't fall asleep, because she can't close her eyes because her thoughts start to sound hostile and scream at her so she stays awake until something takes consciousness away from her, stopping her silent soliloquy in a monotonous vocabulary, the same dead-end lines around her head, her voice plaintive in a featureless room where the light splashes nowhere and the distant walls draw closer when you're not looking. Impossible talks. Impossible starts to talk to her. Part 2: –For S.S. I haven't thought about suicide since the last time I thought about suicide – two days ago, I fell in love with the Doppler effect: a shrill signal from space pulled my eyes towards an aluminum sky, away from incoming traffic, blue-shifting the red stoplight, the frequency of a sedan's approach ricocheted between me and its bumper, but I stayed still and pretended my attention away. I hovered over a pothole or fell inside it, muttered to the jagged sides why bother to climb but wanting to catch the rumble of passing cars with my body to resonate with movement, to travel with the sound if only to feel as if I were going anywhere at all, if only to escape the echoes building upon echoes, my own voice thrown back at me distorted into a siren's clarity: this is bullshit. Poetry, is a ditch dug in barren ground, and you you will never be happy, you will never see colors again, feel the music of a moment crescendo, the air on your skin, the scent of love against the rot in your head, you will never stop reverberating like fragile crystal to the shriek of world until it breaks you and when it does no one will ever plant flowers over your grave. Part 3: Insensate There is no you, no transmission, touched gaps between plastic wrapped nerves – deadened and sparking – the smell of fire is everything it takes from us, but there is no you, and carbon gives back to the air we breathe, wasting as our lungs collapse, flatten into shaking words for there is no you to receive my smoke, to cough back out to me, saying nothing as the windows burst open and my flaming head extends out into the open city, no you, no me, no us in the sound of sirens approaching, no me, no you, no us as water hits me in the face Part 4: At the Event Horizon I surfaced from the mires of my mind, still dripped with years that felt unlived. I knew myself only by the patterned texture of a wall in my bedroom. It felt like the air outside. It looked like a memory crossing the street. I forgot you had ever existed outside my head until we bumped into each other on the bus. It was then that I could hear the restless cacophony of its movement. I existed only as a word passed between us. Atomic lace. Drapes across the sunshine of space, curtained places where light was absent and on some level, among the exposed foundations, our bodies were recurring shapes for repeated thoughts. I could echo your words for myself, if only to have something else to fill me in.