Arid sepia landscape. All the air sucked out of a deflated balloon left to melt in an unair-conditioned back room in a business that’s closed for the summer. What’s left is fair game to the elements once it gets cleared out. A brick face building on all four sides with no way to breathe or get air. Above water submarine baking in the heat. Thirst is essential, quintessential even. A backbeat torture chamber where you can hear the trickles of sweat pouring down, even in the deadest of silences. It’s the ricocheting reverberations of your own body with the sole intent to rattle your mind. A padded space, printed in greyscale. Delirium in 0 to 60. Adequate resources for a mind gone dull. Especially when in certain seasons it becomes too cold to think or crawl, but just stand and shake and wait for the bus to come. Laissez-faire tactics long forgotten. Simply squeezed orange juice waits unpulped in a glass because we have forgotten how to fend for ourselves. Could we even build the cardboard container than holds this liquid morning gold (to some)? This sugar cane god we now bow down to, in spite of all the things good Catholics know yet choose to purposefully ignore. This isn’t garbage, this is crisis. Blinding reaching for anything resembling eloquence in body or speech.