Sometimes when I consider the inside of my brain it seems like it must be honeycomb not flesh. Or the symmetrical petals of a complex flower. Sigourney Weaver always looks like she wants to tell me to go run around outside. Or read a book. Stop trying to make noodles in your skull. Ramen was never meant for this. Sigourney
Weaver knows I have a therapist but likes to add corn and butter to the broth anyway. It’s always Hokkaidō styles around here. Ezo or Yezo or Yeso, or Yesso, you can take the miso out of the ramen but you can’t take the ramen out of the miso without putting it in your mouth. These feelings are ancient and naked mole rats.
Conditioned to darkness and not feeling pain. You can try to stop them but they keep on digging with their teeth for the tubers to feed their queen. Sigourney Weaver is my queen in the eusocial utopia of my dreams. It is a pity I’m the only worker trying to make this happen. That includes Sigourney Weaver. She’s not keen to give birth
to litters. But Sigourney Weaver knows how to undress my feelings as if they were a small child. Always that tug to get the neck-hole over the slightly too large head. She folds the arm expertly across the front of the body to release the limb from its sleeve. She is unafraid of their tiny, soft bodies. The feelings, they are naked after she
touches them. And once they’re naked it is easier to sweep them into the current of a fast flowing river. Feet first little feelings, feet first. Sigourney Weaver blows air out of her mouth in what may be a horsey manner but I don’t interrupt her to say that. She’s dangling the last troublesome jerk-feeling by her fingers over the gap. And splash.