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

In the kitchen, Lora, wiped her fingers of the quiche on her apron as the scent of fondue gurgled from a small cauldron-pot on the stove—slow simmering now like archeology—its bubbles rising and popping—then sighing—with a pathology of tonight's...