

I want to scream at you but I know you don’t want to hear it as you wander around the abandoned drug store turned found art showcase, old boxes of meds, the kanji, hiragana, katakana in red, blue, white, green, black, arranged in concentric circles, next the altar with the skeleton of a cat the artist found, and I need air, but I stand in front of the altar, my own bones also locked in rigidity, my mind wondering about decay, about smell, about the years it took for this cat to become merely a mummified remain of its former glory, and you tap my shoulder, point to the cat’s permanent grin, and whisper if only we all could die this happy.
