my clothing is plastered to my frame like new skin, as the sun shamelessly imposes it's rays upon me. i watch the heat rise from the pavement as sweat haphazardly drips down from the top of my lip to my chin. i recall previous encounters with similar pavements that i'd once closely inspected when i'd felt to dizzy to look at far more complex structures surrounding me. i distance myself from the memory for a second until i am paralyzed by the familiarity of the smell of opened beers and cigarettes and nearby ocean. I then hear the laughter, and music, and bottles. and cups, slamming at a distance. I hear pool sticks clinking pool balls and the toilets flushing. i hear chairs dragging and feet shuffling and halfway conversations. i suddenly am there reworked and rewound in a different time. i see peyton in cowboy boots and her blue high waist skirt holding a drink to her mouth as she says something unflattering to creyton. i see astarte leaning over the bar talking to sasha. i see the booth in front of me to the direct left of that bar and then i see them and him and worry that the closeness of the memory will never dissipate and i want to start again and see him but then look past him and back at my drink then leave.

light and hollow like an emptied egg shell. it feels quiet inside. nothing to power it forth or to hold still a substance. what is hidden is nothingness and yet it still feels compelled to conceal. the illusion of substance. the potential. the hope.

like a wound toy, i am beneath your hands being turned. mechanically i function as you tightly wind then release. i spin for a minute, moving a few inches before stopping. you are amused for a time then bored by my stillness. i am simply the over manufactured model with all the promised parts.

it wouldn't make a difference if i was made here or in china. it wouldn't matter if i was wired differently. as long as you could wind me, and release me..as long as i could appear to move alone, even a moment, even an instant.