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Humanity can't survive without escapism, I utter to the birds in me, the white doves, the little girls, the corpses, and it ricochets around and around the birdcage in my ribcage, around and around as if along the wet oil paints of the earth, around and around as if it's the last sound before the dark veil comes and all becomes black, black again.
A question stirs our attention. Has it always been a birdcage or has it ever been a birdhouse? The question is so gummy in my hands, I clench it and unclench it and it remains the same; sticky, clammy and so warm, the warmest body my hands ever met.
Have I ever been a house or have I always been a confinement?
