My left arm still hasn't healed. Walking around with something that won't heal, that's my job these days.
The floor in front of the high seat still hasn't been cleaned. You spilled it, you wipe it up.
The sound you swallowed in the parlor that day is still caught in my throat. It's yours, isn't it.
If black blood comes from a star too, it belongs in the observation log. May I write it down.


