The buildings that were never finished soon become places of parasitism. The We that was never linked soon becomes a place of un-history.

When I speak of the We I speak of the secrets left within inaccessible spaces of memory. Languages like the tower of Babel in which Brain is being deconstructed. Our Brains. Our heirlooms keeping the heart beating and the blood pumping. Thicker than water. Viscous. Centrifuged.

A lighting bolt that defines our separation.

When I am the We I mean to tell you that this is an artifact to fit my own history. This is the space in which I am making my own motherland. This is the space in which I search and explore and lie. Where I create the We to say there is kinship in the things that have meaning for us. A clue: Family. A clue: The bodies of the four of us. A clue: I am telling you some history of identity and death through the inaccessible space of memory.

A clue: I am telling you a story through language but I also need your body to fulfill my means.

I am claiming to be part of something greater saying: This is the We that holds us together.

Teeth and nails and saliva to test that we belong.