i hate the impossibility of having no air bubbles in applied scotch tape strips as much as i hate titling unread words and unseen paintings

"Carving concentric circles into the air like achromatic moons, the sparrow wanes into a spiral, climbing ziggurats of fog."

I am capable of unoriginality. 

I am gushing with hindrance.  I am both a whitehot halogen bulb and a cracklingly frail wick.  I am a QWERTY-based lifeform.  I am a foxed, dusty textblock.  I am a Berber carpet.  I am a lintshred stuck to the toilet rim in the third-floor bathroom of a department store.  I am hexagonal.  I am a loquacious raven.  I am a theorem of continuity.  I am running beneath a twelve-rung wooden ladder.  I am a fresh box of checks.  I am swimming in unfiltered cider.  I am a togglebolt.  I am relinquishing my great power(s).        

And a logical argument housed in the basement of some glossy pages:  I cannot remember the last time I saw a bird climbing into a tower of fog in spherical ways the shape of oblique Earthly satellites and if I cannot remember this then it didn't exist and if it didn't exist then it is all irrelevant.

"Close your eyes."

"They are closed."

Hair and then fingertips.  Air purifier and bookshelf creaks.  

Sssskkkkkuuuurrrrrrtttttttcccchhhhhhhhhh and it holds it all together, somehow.