"Tell me something impossible," she said, peeling back his wrapper of memories like layers of sun-warmed orange rind. The man beside her exhaled through his nose—half-laugh, half-sigh—while his fingers traced the rim of a glass that hadn't held promises...

We the masters of manufactured greed,and curators of the void.A car, a house, some nicotine weed,breathtaking, non filtered.Sipping coffee at four dollars a cup,when it's 98% water.Thinking Shakespeare is a reality show,still not knowing, diddly squat.

...from earth beneath the floor,the apothecary of my soul,the weight of what is— no shelf of fragrant balms, with echoes rising, a ledger, of my forgotten