White room, door ajar, and voices bustle in from other peoples chat. Chat in the kitchen. My distance from them is clearing. I’m nowhere near it. Were speaking different languages. Pouring into the lake, with pollutant. The white on white water hole, ruined by my hot dark piss, my magnolia crystal flow, flowing away... it leaves the room, through the hole in the floor... into the holes that draw, outwards, towards other crystal rushes. White tiles on the wall with a touch, a fraction of depth. A gloss so thin, and about to crack. Words are around, or in the background, but it’s bleaching... the background sound.
I don’t feel myself.
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