we walk down the wire-bordered corridors, looking at other people's clothes with no sense of curiosity. there is no rush. take your time. some kind of heartbeat reverberates in the green glass chambers full of these other people's things. nobody wants them. we want none of it.
a blue blouse flutters as it falls from a crane into a large pile of other blouses, blue and white and brown and no-coloured. no flesh ever filled this blue blouse, falling, signifying nothing. the crane operates on a machinated schedule of plucking and plonking but the pile never changes shape. no transformation, no disappearing. once a thing is made it cannot be unmade. the bones we plant become flowers.
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