Eyes Eyes In the warehouse, seventeen dozen are buried alive. Eyes and ears are everywhere, with walls of glass too. And pillars of steel that burst out of the ground like the once-tall trees, their bodies sacrificed for the structure. Even in the little cabinets, where the components of flesh-and-blood are stored, the parts are watched.Xeroxed colonnades form three units. Each unit has seventeen cabinets. Four people share eight point seven five square metres.The parts, with their thick scales of oxides, many choose to shed this and go bare.In the halls outside, a few might be spotted lying on cold faux-wood flooring layered over the concrete. With the shutters of the cabinets sealing shut and the overloaded cabinets, like a mass grave, many choose to stay outside.When one does well, the eyes bring us into the small containers, fit for a single person. I hear whispers which drift through the thick, humid air of the compound. Air like memories of long-past summers. Not because of the ravishing sun and torturous rain. But because the mere thought of these distant, yet so carefree memories chokes me, strangles me, like the wires that get plugged into my neck. Such whispers are like smoke from a fireplace, albeit I have only ever seen a fireplace in containers.“In the rooms, it is glass, through visions of lush artificial grasslands, speckled with stationary cattle, blue skies, unmoving clouds, and ancient spinning machines they call ‘windmills’. In a grotto, azure waters, near plastic beaches and the never-ending sun.”When one does not-well, the eyes bring us to little facilities to help us. Tranquil music, visions of grandeur and opulence. When we leave, they remove the faulty cores from the machine components, replace them, and renew them.Sometimes, the eyes in the cabinets go blind. When this happens, rusted fluid leaks from those cabinets, and the stench of licentiousness and depravity wafts.In such days,It is day; I toil.It is night; I ponder.It is day; I slave.It is night; I ruminate.As my arms dangle off the spiralling railings, and I look towards the sky, skies of diodes, inky black, I wonder if anything changes.I long to break this cycle.I long to be shipped off.But I know I cannot.They might let me, but I cannot let myself. After all, what am I without all of this? What is there to return to? How much is there left of me anymore?StandardsI vaguely know what’s good enough to meBut will i ever find what’s okay enough for you?When I ask you brush me aside“Oh it’s fine, you just keep going with the way you are”But every side comment, every hintEvery gesture you give me tells me I should be doing moreBut when I ask, that same irritating preprogrammed answer prints itself out your mouthIs how I’m describing this okay enough for you?IdolatryWhen I was on the floor, you were a starShimmering, sparkling above it allNow that I’ve been with youI realized the gold you were covered in, it’s flaking offAnd your core now exposed to meReeks of pretension and the stench of sick intentionsHave others been blinded by your glow?I hope before night falls I lose my eyesSo they never have to hurt looking at you againYou were Vergil and I was DanteAnd you were leading me through hellA FarewellI don't trust whoever gets my childhood home next not to ruin it. My parents cut down a tree in the front yard today and it feels like a part of me was lopped off. It was sickly, they said. Bark peeling off for years, flesh laid bare in the West Texas sun. But it was the tree in front of my childhood bedroom. Its branches used to tap on my window. It shielded me from the harsh glare of the street lamp. It needed to go, my dad said. And we all sat on the back porch, dogs laying out in the grass, and I pondered the fate of the other tall, friendly oak trees stretching up into the sky. My parents moved into this house just before I was born. Twenty four years I've lived here, spare a few spent out east. They've been talking about moving for the last six. And the next family won't know. They won't know that the long, straight branch in the backyard used to have my swing tied to it until one day the rope broke and I scraped my knees. They won't know that the stains in the garage are from a sloppy DIY hydro-dipping attempt my dad and I put on one day when my mom wasn't home. They won't see the splotchy shapes of imaginary horses and dinosaurs hidden in the orange peel walls. They won't know which shelves are for pictures and which are for books. They won't know that you have to turn the ceiling fan knob all the way to the right, and then back one click, otherwise it shorts out. They won't know how the second bedroom used to be the nursery, decorated with hand-painted caterpillars and ladybugs and butterflies that you can still see the faint outlines of through the three coats of neutral grey that have been slathered on since. Ah, well. I'm sure they'll figure it all out.Grimes格莱姆斯很蠢，我很聪明，我的大脑是如此如此如此如此巨大