#human traces

𝕾𝖊𝖑𝖋 𝖎𝖘 𝖆 𝖑𝖎𝖊, 𝕴'𝖒 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖗𝖊𝖋𝖑𝖊𝖈𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘

A mouthful of dust would be something. You could gather it any time, couldn’t you, any time you like, from the corners of rooms, the underneaths of beds, the tops of doors. The rolled-up hairs and dried stuff and specks off what-once-was-skin, all the glamorous leavings of breathing creatures ground down to essence and glued together with the used-up leftover webs and the flakes of a moth, the see-through flakes of a bluebottle’s dismantled wing. You could easily (for you can do such a thing whenever you choose, if you want to) smear your hand with dust, roll dust’s precious little between a finger and a thumb and watch it stencil into your fingertips, yours, unique, nobody else’s. And then you could lick it off; I could lick it off with my tongue, if I had a tongue again, if my tongue was wet, and I could taste it for what it is. Beautiful dirt, grey and vintage, the grime left by life, sticking to the bony roof of a mouth and tasting of next to nothing, which is always better than nothing