fig. 942) dirt makes us many when the truth makes us lie "Things could be more different if we had their trust still. There could be enough time for thinking things through. We probably wouldn't let them just go like that." "The box, the white walls and the basement below it were always easy to fill up. We didn't even need to ask. Just dig a hole and people would write about it." In the dark, the ruined lath and smashed plaster is reminiscent of crazy knuckles and slick cartilage whomped until it's really sticky. Death sits underneath the broken roof. Death is making themself some beans. They're stirring the hot can with a limber stalk from an elm tree while muttering, "Haven't we aimed low enough already." "Any lower and we'd have to pull up the rug to find what was hit," they answer to themselves. "We'll have stop and make this park our home. We can live behind the vending machines and we'll blah blah ...