You are hanging by a string. You crave odd objects, not just food. A damp hand cloth folded neatly across your face, torn up bits of construction paper, rice cakes at midnight.
You are being strangled by your own omission. It's like you are trying to remember where you buried your feet in the sand, but can't walk around to find them. And you can't remember if the waves washed up these used cigarettes or if you smoked every last one of them out of a stagnant boredom (because there is such a thing as active, animated boredom).
But things are getting messy now. Your stage fright is becoming unbearable, the front row littered with matches, dropped programs soaked with gasoline. You are a little giddy, you admit it.
Products of wood combustion, dried bone fragments, compounds that remain, rituals. A love affair with the memory of the rapid oxidation of a material.