Here we are at the entrance again. 
Depending on how much sleep I lost last 
night, it will eventually act like an exit. All 
the debacles—political, familial—are 
health-related. In fact, this spiral is really
a stethoscope pressed to my heart 
wrapped in tissue with half a Tigers Milk 
bar and some thread. Also inside the 
pocket, a severed red lipstick and a 
minotaur I’d better feed soon. Between 
the two of us, it’s hard to say who’s more 
stumped and terrified by circles. Somehow 
the walls manage to know when we’re 
hungry and claustrophobic at the same 
time. They shift back a little, like clouds. 
And we eat them clean to the center.