What is this place but another room nestled tightly and claustrophobically into another room crafted by the hands of another another another over and over again where the original maker's marks are long forgotten and invisible to this simple and easily manipulated eye, our eye, lost in the sway of the breeze of all directions -- directionless we --
pushed at random pushed with purpose pushed with intent, rarely without condition;
it is a condition, this room is a condition conditioned to a rotting disease and witness the checkered panels decaying into that everlasting fog the fade the fade the fade
these are the windows closed, these are the strings tied to nowhere
and so many questions and rejections and animosities frothing when the see is seen
cut the strings cut the STRINGS cut THE strings CUT the strings, no, oh no, oh no, questions and rejections and animosities
frothing ---------------- Fuck it,
Cut the strings.
