there are 317.4 miles between this shambly apartment and the unoccupied southeast bedroom in which my mother harbors relics of my childhood. sailboats on an evaporated sea.
i feel an obligation to her, that creature that i was, to never forget anything. my whole life as a tunnel, a canal, a walkway, museums upon museums of installations between terminals in the chicago o'hare airport.
"what?" he asks. our faces are two stones next to each other in a wall and he still cant hear me.
the components of our lives and of our bodies are all stones all-next-one-another in the same wall along a single long road and he still cant hear me. we are 317.4 miles long. at first i think there is an earthquake, but then it's just my heart beating.
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