My right eye drops into some bowl I managed to recover from the burning house. A cheap alloy bowl. It was where men—all animals saddled by turrets of their lamentations, all named Jeremiah—left their cigarette ends, and also my heart. How painful was it to get out of a burning house is not my concern now since I like writing about love though I only have memory, whorled and quaking like a leech that's about to die. Memory is always needy like that. But it indescribably believes in its speech so obdurately speaking it is through slopes of debt, spiked walls, climbing boots, visa application, through the images of a boy being licked by bears in a forest he ran into. After all, you could argue he is dispensed by a cotton mill. Everything of him is soft. Feet, knees, arms, everything. And now he's twisting his cotton body until it becomes a rope and a heavy man in a crowd of pilgrims walks to the dirty cotton rope, picks it up, puts a flame in his newly-bought lighter, and jiggles the damned rope, you think you can hide from us?
 
 
       [Everything ends here and ashes fall from the sky.]
 
 
       [Ashes have made the sky and everything cannot end here.]