let's begin with an image, paint a picture in your aching head: in some other time, you're strewn across the couch like fresh laundry: warm, mismatched, and ill-fitting a comforting routine in an old life that's soon to be folded over somewhere, music plays in the background perhaps it's just the ghosts phoning it in over the static of someone else's experience and i've had too much time to think too much time on my hands wrinkles, life, and love lines--little red threads for things i refuse to remember tug them and i'll unravel at the seams for you heart lines dripping outside the bleed a pile of hand-me-downs stuffed into a box for someone else to try on to rip the sleeves off and stitch them into someone new this idea is discounted to make room on the shelf for a shinier, newer model of my subconscious that someone will buy off the shelf and upcycle into a fully-fledged experience: a wicker chair masquerading as bedroom furniture oh, how i don't belong