I have been making kites from paper bending them over my head, like rain-evaders from wetting the roots from where tresses have begun to weaken, I have folded delicate litmus in fours only to smoothen back to open squares, writing un-abidingly of flight: white ink on wings of birds of homes in groves. I have been reviving the days of skin holding it together over a blank slate, like a soul given a new house atop a hill where grass cannot be chewed; you will find decomposition here in the layers between independence and aloneness – I have marked them out as wrinkles – as the initiator that first tasted the apple instead, growing a tree where seeds fell from my mouth that bore more apples man ate to stay alive. First published in Section 8 Magazine