In a box of memory all alone I remember standing in the corner of a room with my friend Sarah. It was when we first met and everything about our time always felt like spotlights on empty stages. I remember the walls flew up into space like low resolution church spires; surfaces flat and unmarked. The floor bobbed and drifted. It reminded me of a time when I was swimming underwater and watching my childhood dog swim over top of me: the hair on her legs sliding and jerking like palm trees in hurricanes slowed down to one frame a second.
I don't know what Sarah and I were talking about, but we were just elements on a stage.
Eyes of rare earth and teeth made of old whale bones.