verge raze one day he just stops going into work. for six months he sits on the hard floor of his narrow bedroom, subsisting on a diet of corticosteroids and paranoia, and he stares at a hollow hanging wall that shuts out the sky. every second day he rips a support beam out of the ceiling and mends it with duct_tape, making wrong a thing that was right enough for years not to wriggle free and crush him while he came as close to dying as anyone still living can. he speaks in riddles his son can't understand. like when your hair gets wet and your dinner gets cold, your spine parks beside it. he hasn't found a way yet to strip himself for parts. but he's mastered the art of moving a chair behind someone who's retro walking so they're always on the verge of falling onto something they can't see or sense as a looming threat. 250115 what's it to you? who go blather from