I am beginning my flush. Down the wire. The ending is unknown—do I have five minutes left? Five years? Walls of the uterine lining shedding me—all I'll have left is a name. And when you're through with me, even that won't be worth the keypress required to type it. There is discoloration of the malignant kind, a swing set hologram painted before my eyes and her concrete shoes disintegrate—chunks and runs of shit, some like mucous, swirling in the bowl. I walked in on myself in the bathroom—she was sitting in the toilet, texting, and she looked up and saw me and saw that I was her and she was me and I closed the door and stepped back slowly and said, "Sorry, sorry." It was all very "Malkovich Malkovich" for the 19th time. They say the hyperbole of youth, that if we order a lemonade it will be the best lemonade we ever had in our entire lives but look, since I haven't lived that long it probably is the best lemonade I ever had in my entire life. I ask you to understand. The bowl is a fire in the sky and this tube is the Serengeti—I am moving along the ecosystem of those stinky decomposers bacteria for food and the stickiest night light you have ever known. Twisting, turning inside the large and the small, coming out below the mystery of a fire shark. My sense of balance is gone after half my brain was removed in the first eight years of school—rebuilding it now in the privacy of my own home. For who cares what is outside these walls?—Haven't I seen enough? Do I ever have to do it all again? If I tried on your hat it all would be empty—tragedy strikes meaning nothing—engaging in the death ritual comforts us—letting it all go. Polyps threatening to disturb my Master Cleanse. I am lemon juice. I am cayenne pepper. For all my shortcomings I am the most fertile person I have ever come in contact with—but all my creations are abortions. Flames follow the tips of my fountain. As soon as I drop out the spout I will see it is my own slide and my own splash down pool—a 9x13 cake pan I snuck from beside the microwave. Wriggling around, a sweater made straightjacket, pulling my phone from the back pocket of my Zadig & Voltaires, but I get no signal in my colon—Black & Deckers could never cut me free. And down here I see (like Alice floating objects in her rabbit hole) the books I have read—Invisible Man, Native Son—those two especially in the shit—some book by Douglas Hofstadter showing mathematically that we really do live on in each other—that a person isn't completely contained within their body—and I believed him, because he seemed sweet and smart and reasonable, gentle—and I liked his hair. I thought about how many of us a little bit of him would live in once he died. Stripping out printer ribbons, film from cameras, punching in character after character of my juicy babies, squishy fingernails, colons never used—no bacteria in them at all. This is why babies smell so fresh. Not all of that eating and if they were born with purple hair I would love them even more. Static clings me to the sides of my intestine—I am in the brain of the south—South American below the waist a brain doing all that processing we could never stomach above the Panama Canal. My lightning in the ether, sparks blue between my fingers, I am stretching—stretching to be a Wonder Woman, serial god—but I'll die tripping on a shoelace. Choking on a Visine cap. After passing through the large intestine, a slow decline vis small colon rectum and out into the dirt of animal feces fish shitting at the bottom of the ocean of lakes we used to camp in swimming in dark water where you couldn't see the bottom and I snuck off into the woods where I could touch myself and lean against a tree, looking up up up into the dusty light and when I cum the only ones who see me are the trees. The trees—who have been here for a thousand years, who were here before our stories were written—who are involved in a massive coverup by organisms larger than any single government—they take my fetus from me at night by burrowing in through the walls I find sections of wallpaper replaced when I search it in the morning and I know that someone's been here. They know not to touch the windows—safer to go in through brick and drywall. And over time, the letters in this book will change. Hacking is more than the internet—we are hacking time and fucking atoms—even the books on your shelf are not safe—even the atoms in your brain are manipulable by dark alphabets they are like snakes: they morph to fit through the smallest spaces. But I see a turn ahead, and I skate on hands and feet to avoid being digested by my own system. I can only last about six hours—to live another day my lungs must evolve to breathe pure septic shit. The infection is inside of me and I am inside the infection. I am inside your guts, transferred through your eyes, your brain, the mythical blood-brain barrier, down your left arm jumping from hand to stomach and filtering through to your digestive pipes. I have your device down here, and with help from superhuman agencies neither of us will ever comprehend, I am totaling the value of your life.