The cold of the gun cannon digs into my cheek and my helmet is fastened too tight so I can hardly open my mouth, but these are details of the individual and no longer matter. I cannot be me right now, not for this dance. There is here no I.
I see the maple-walnut cookies I ate last night, stretching across my ribs in a layer of fat which then pools in the pouch of my lower abdomen, collecting in the hips that swell over the band of the underwear that I bought during a time when I was thinner.
Monkeys don’t speak English and the hairy little creatures with their tough young muscles swing around in their chairs, throwing excrement-coloured things and shrieking laughter.
He leaves food lying around now, and that’s great great but he doesn’t as much anymore with the petting or the playing.