I saw something inside me die. Eaten, it burned up entirely, and my eyes fixed a steel beam glance right through the flames until the seeing and the feeling of something being watched were one. Resetting was not a depressed act; in fact, it felt good. It wasn't until what came after. I don't neurologically suppose any of this makes sense. But I can still see inside myself and I like to stare at the ashes. I could purchase a sapling or I could purchase a seed. A full grown house plant of indeterminable age wouldn't work. I would just eat the leaves smeared in cream cheese. I like the look of words on a page, but not as much as I like having an idea. When I let them go they neither live or die. The plate of food is laughing at me and the food still inside wrappers is bursting at the seams. Food never cries. You could only eat the inside of your body and sunlight and water. You would find something new to look at in the waste of that.
