but here I am, Valero bathroom. who’s paid to keep these things cliche? in the neon headlight headspace that comes from 2 am highway lines, I’m trapped in tile and indie-movie aesthetic, a montage i could swear i’ve seen before— somewhere— i wonder who the set dresser is, who draped that toilet paper just so. who smudged that lipstick on the mirror? some other girl in some other cheap sequence. all i can smell is gasoline and crumpled dreams. there’s no paper towels. who’s paid to keep these things cliche?

zeugmas are my favorite figure of speech. two nouns are given the same verb, and they both work, or not. it’s tricky. i can’t explain what i mean. zeugmas take words and twist them up, testing your intelligence and your patience. my heart is learning to beat to an unfamiliar rhythm, and the only thing i know is art doesn’t have to rhyme. i’m going to take two words, resolve on a verb and my mind.