made_of_bone raze this is the name of a play you can't remember anything about, though you're told you won the lead role. you ask the woman who wrote the script which part she played, failing to recognize her as the architect of your dialogue and stage_directions. she tells you she spends most of her time on her back in a box, melting ice with the heat that flushes her face. you touch your tongue to the calcified connective tissue that forms a flap where your upper lip would be if you were flesh and phosphorus, and feel the ink of all your days bleed through to the back of this timeworn page. 260215 what's it to you? who go blather from