One must sit at a desk in a chair & forever write the story of how one will die. One must use descriptive writing & descriptive stone & one’s inner life. Outside the window, the woman there, bending to look beneath her car for whatever dead thing caused that thump, she is one’s inner life. The woman out there with her finger on the trigger of her own bomb, she is one’s inner life. The woman with acid-scars slicking down her face, walking exactly how a woman without acid-scars walks, she is one’s inner life. It is not right for a chain to wander, but once it does it wanders endlessly, like that birdcage in the corner of one’s room that no one recalls ever holding a bird. One must sit at a desk & watch anything happening on the other side of the window & write until one’s story is done.