Three women are wearing variations of the same fall coat. Same tan color. Differently shaped collars. I am one of them. Our shoulder pads touch. The metallic box shows us back to ourselves and each other.

We stagger our descent in floors, fewer people fit in each time. Between the 20th and 15th, four people enter, many more wait for the next lift.. At my floor, only I enter. For the last few floors we come to jerky halts, but no one pushes in. Doors slide open to the sound of hurrying footsteps that quickly stop or turn away. Fingers jab at the button again.

In the article I wrote today I was told to not recommend using Mx when the recipient's gender is unknown. Its now considered too political, so unwise to use. In one of the group chats I lurk in, too ashamed to do good, too ashamed not to try, one man types, ‘I am Hamad, from Gaza.’ A world of suffering in one sentence. He doesn't say anything else.

Under glassy umbrellas streams of people move towards the public trains. I see more women wearing my coat, with airpods in like mine, with sneakers like mine.

I am on my way to a poetry workshop but I have no poem. I am on my way to my death but I have very little to show for my life. I am on my way to buy tobacco but mine isn't finished yet.

I am living my dreams but they no longer feel like dreams. I am my ancestors dreams but that isn't mine to say.

I first wrote lift then changed it to elevator. I am considering my reader, considering the place of this text and whether I can shape it to work for me, to represent me. I want approval and recognition. I want to make a mark and to leave an impression. Going in to work makes me dizzy. I wear a mask. I forget to take it off until I bring my cup to my face and find resistence.

Everything feels too loaded, too political. Even when it isn't, but that's because, actually, it is.

Something there is that doesn't love a wall.

Cochlea sunflower seed watermelon seeds and a million times of amplitude equals deathly explosions, tiny tiny tinny tinny, in your head amplified. Taste and smell. synasthesia, a river and many seas. From the rivers down down to the seas. My father says words and I hold my head. Rivers channel cheek routes, dizzy like a merry go round. Temporarily disoriented. Thickening as we age. a roux, a ruse, rouge, one and one is an intractable conflict. Unstable joints prolonged and severe,

The news intrudes at times. Children play acting as prime ministers shaking shivering playing at press this is no game I stare cease logorithmic rapid fire. Not mathematical in the logical sense of the word, but these decibals are just a bit louder than the pain threshold for noise, for purposes of comparison, a quiet place like a library.

Unsteady on your feet, nausea, like poisoning an escape tunnel from the ear to the nasal cavity, tactics, methods, weapons, a people for experimentation, how can the oppressed becomes the oppressor? The language of war, of solution,

This enhanced emotion, enticing, erotic, complex and hard to deconstruct. Several strains, chords, a keyboard active with molecules and senses and an aroma. What does it smell like? What can you hear? Crude elements a symphony within

This is not mediated. We are not listening to each other. Pleasant, revolting, odorous, carpet bombing, red carpet, sweep it under

What can we do when things are radically wrong? Is writing adequate? Is writing essential? What does peace look like? Is it too late?

Imagine imagine remember remember

The lift empties.