Objects

Just the household objects that you can hold and rotate awkwardly in clasped hands, and the ones you can’t, those standing sentinel behind you, around you, above you, below you, which don’t vanish when you switch off the lights, they are what you call me, and mine. All the peels and slime that you wash off slips quietly out of sight and slides down the ladder no one uses any more, slipping, dripping, sadly out of sight. The dog that sneezes in front of your gate, what do you do with it? Do you express indignation at the lack of etiquette, or do you fondly mark its movements, as if they were part of a Disney motion picture? Day crawls from day to day, and the ultimate reprieve gets a little more used up. At a certain point, it will go from a little used up, to almost nothing left, and you would wonder where the grains flew.

All the ugly, awkward things that mesmerized you, will come back to claim their share. All the grotesque suns and the exploding Uranus’ will find a home, and the twisted expressions with inartistic gestures will thaw and melt. The feces you have longed to touch since childhood, will come to you and stand proudly, denying you the pleasure of touching them. The fatty, redolent smell will mingle with that of tuberoses that bloom no more, and rot very, very slowly. Fruit forks will double in size and remain by your plates. This is not the end.

This is.