It isnt the empty room

It isnt the empty room that pulls me to pieces. It is the potential. It leaves nothing that I can remember as mine. Every freshly painted hollowed out spot could appear in any memory, any desire. It has to. Each shade away from my skin fits even less than the last, from my underclothes sharing indescribable curves, out to each layer of fabric more and more victims of the desert breeze, out from the rooms where shadows degrade me and hard corners push back my fingertips from ever falling completely into their vertices, I can only shape the dust. At least in the room I have extents. In the cone of light that describes my desk at night after the fluorescent grid has set I know where I am and where I am not, where I end. Outside is the opposite of the empty room. I am so real and material that I am a figure of absolute singularity, a point in an endless landscape made of the same stuff as everything else. When I shift in it I dont know it. I am an effect. When I happen upon a street it is every street running all the way back to the ocean and all the way through the desert. When I see the lights of the windows at dusk they are every other window. I can never see the end of it because I dont know if I have moved. Then I am in a room. The bedsheets and pillows are my rind. They are a terrain of whom I am the earth.

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