I contrive the image of a mattress as a digital streaming documentary without pretending my conflation = compelling art. Then I archive the state between life and death—how we are already in it—and this permanence activates something certain. And because you say so, I think of water as a weapon. Were you there that night? I think of a bird’s beak being torn out of its face prior to slaughter, then think of becoming a mother, then dismiss this speculation—i.e., I dismiss the concept of elegant complications in favor of complicated feelings. Wherein rage accumulates, I participate in a boycott of carbonated water; I stand in the center of the police raid calling for a mass embargo; I paint a line across a driveway, indicating political boundaries; then I compliment a fellow activist’s hair. It looks nice, I say, and nice invokes the old French meaning not to know. Where did you go? I hope you are ok, begin stacking geodesic coasters—one on top of the other on top of the next—to set terms for our relation. Were it to be assessed, I would become the token parallelogram—I, the college-aged organizer earning a degree in English writing—or I, a creature of longstanding despair, who does not yet know that my future was you.