The mailroom is closed. I've had all day, and still I don't know where the human begins and ends in my landscape. These people are so brief. And I take so long to code each breath. No one is going to try to decode my lung refinery. They wouldn't even bother to decode the patterns on their kitchen floors. And why should they? They have real lives to live, I imagine. The receptionist gave me a bottle of isolation fluid to take home and gain entry to the burn forest. And tonight the forest will burn. And a stale wind will blow out of an alien novel. And spiders will crush what's left of the trees. And the fog will hold me,

hold me until the carpet has come to a complete stop.

Good night, dear sweet imaginary reader.