My Answer To Your Unsung Sorrow
by Slate Reyner
I stuck my head to the oven door and listened for a heartbeat. I save myself from dying twenty-thousand times a day. The fan breathes heavily. I should move to keep the Earth whole, to keep the empty air intact. But what’s the use of empty air, anyways? We are all vagrants in a land of our own design. If everything is ours, we can never be lost since we never leave home. I furnish my room with Airplanes Flying and Thoreau’s old music box, with cities bathed in sunlight, with unending love. All things exist in all states. Butterflies don’t die so easily and no song is ever heard just once.
“Slate” for a blank slate, constant recreation of the self. “Reyner” for the acclaimed architectural critic, Reyner Banham. A pseudonym for an average twenty-two-year-old.