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Another day I keep thinking about a body who writes through sand. In fact the body is me but I’d rather just refer to it as “the body.”

It writes through sand and when it emerges on the other side of the fence, the side of the fence whose bureaucracy had promised but failed to take care of it, the body asks certain questions to certain people who it knows will not have the answers.

For instance, it asks a young boy to identify the name of a tree with pink leaves that smells like expensive cologne. It is a tree whose name has no English translation just as there is no way of translating the experience of the bodies who lost their faces when they fell off the fence. They are whipped by bodies who are controlled by bureaucrats on both sides of the line who believe that the same bag of shit on one side of the line smells better than the same bag of shit on the other.

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