To the Dirt Which in Time Will Consume Us All

The camera pulls back to show a man running
down an empty city street. Fin appears white
across my chest. The camera keeps retreating,
revealing more. How would you like to go?
Last night—or was it two nights ago?—
I smashed a spider against my house with
my laptop lid. Some people say scientists
have proven traumatic memories get passed
down through DNA. I don’t recall how,
something to do with being brutal to mice.
I love scientists. They’re trying their hardest.
And they just want love. Whole schools of
photographers exist around expired film,
cheap plastic cameras with limitations,
scratches on the negatives. I love artists.

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