Once, I was looking for trash, not literal trash but other people’s trash, the things in their saved files that they would never finish—we all have them, a sentence here, paragraph over there—dropboxed or canned, 86’ed, dropped, forgotten. I wanted people’s trash because I couldn’t write. I wanted people’s trash because I wanted to finish their trash, make it not trash, make it obtrusive and wild, unforget it, give it body.

Writer trash is not trash. It is without corporeal.

Writer trash: I asked twenty for it, ten men, ten women. Every man offered me trash, only a few women. Why, I ask. Why? Why are men less reticent to protect their words? A woman’s trash is still sacred, maybe. A man is more willing to protect their words, maybe. There is no conclusion, only finished trash, my words completing theirs. And so, Unfinished becomes body, haptic.