Imitating frozen art imitating calcified life

---

I stole a brick once from Harvard Square and used it as a door stop for a year or three. Incandescent fury of youth, and also an inability to feed or clothe or nurture or care for the body in which the self and soul each annealed unto the other. The time of dropped percocets and the endless buffet of meal plan hegemony and the ceaseless rumble of soldiering on with the insomnia. “Sleep when you’re dead” a stamp on the forehead of every self respecting wordsmith, like a tuning fork for burnt candles and testament art.