I perform ancient tasks that were, at one point predictable, but for this woman are a harsh tangent. I move outside. California on my computer screen. Silicon Valley. I let go of things that cause my cheeks to sink, make me count, toss, make me have conversations that coat my skull like plaque. I throw them over my balcony and then realize I can still see the blue of the sky and the clouds even though it’s midnight. Lights from a discoteque bounce off the clouds, but I don’t need to follow them: I have enough food for my void, thank you. And I think I will put myself to bed, because I have placed my soul in an unmarked box, which I’m sure has not been opened. I would throw it off the balcony now, if I could. But this one is much too heavy. And it would take me with it. Goodnight quiet air. In Beijing I am eating noodles.
