hinged raze this door has no knob to knead. it opens when you press both palms to its shoulders and push. something like sunlight leaks through the slit in its stomach. a careworn custodian suggests donating land that isn't yours to give to people you've never met. hectare, he says. you picture a fissure in the fabric of a hell that isn't brave enough to breathe its own name. you find a storage closet and let yourself fall face-first against a warm wall, your forehead fighting to keep you on your feet. bent but unbroken, you marvel at the mundane miracle of your body. what strange shapes it makes. 260328 what's it to you? who go blather from