I live inside of this disintegration—autoimmune diseased world—like acid, acrid, splashing over, eating like a glutton all of us—until we become nothing—but bones in zones of war and peace. Her beauty eats at the hole in the Plain Jane’s heart—until she becomes nothing—obsessed with a nose of extra squamous epithelium, obsessed with the penis-bodied that do not aggregate around her. At the end of the day, she turns into a mirror, a soul trapped in glass, hung on a wire of good-for-nothing flesh. We do not like who we are in this part of the world, they struggle to be who they are in that part of the world. Maltreated souls, malnutritioned bodies, malcontented human beings whose contents are malfunctioning. Who we are. Always struggling for the contrary–until we become nothing—the creator decides to start over. Grabs his eraser or crumbles the page.