Morgan says, happy birthing

of the meat. Time isn’t

real, Billie says, but the body trusts it

still like a loser. Discord is

shit, the world is a fuck and you’re

older and

dad to a shifty cat; Ulysses

is a good birthday name, but I don’t

think Have a Birth

-Day like a Cat is sound advice.

There’s an essay What is it Like

to Be a Bat? It involves a sounding

an urn with a tiny hammer, to probe the noise

echoed, but then— says Ren—

that’s just every day, each stich unravelling

in the sun, unfolding like a child

into a wariness. I talk

sometimes in my sleep, lower jaw

cracks like ice, seams along

an umbilicus of air, releasing Jurassic

-era carbon. You apologise

for the wifi-quality

our avatars laugh like fire

sirens.