There’s a child in the office and the child is naked and standing among the desks. His nose is bleeding and his toe has a foot that has toes that have feet.
“Do you have a tissue?” he asks me.
I look at myself and realize that I am a tissue. (When people start to do things sometimes always is born and they never return.)
My boss comes out from a meeting with investors, wearing high heels that wear high heels. She is, therefore, the front of a horse. She stands next to the child, clopping. I wipe the child’s nose with myself and I get blood on myself and I wipe myself with myself. The child rolls me thoughtfully into a saddle and, the blood clotting, mounts my boss upon me.
“Thank you,” my boss says, galloping at the horizon.
New Dead Families 