Sand washes through the floorboards of this place we call home,

regulated to a bit part,

designed to be a throne,

but it’s more like a tomb where our bodies grow cold,

a sight,

a star,

an american dream,

a dusty road through the Nullarbor,

see the blood,

feel the sand,

taste the saltiness of your own semen,

squirting,

suffocating,

menstruating,

be it man,

be it woman,

feel the dry palm of life as it tightens over your mouth…