Brain will get diagnosis translated through machines that eat you up and spit you out. Machines created by Brain to see its insides. To declare, simply: demencial syndrome. Psychomotor retraction. Conductual changes. And the We will say memory or say nothing, nothing at all.

Desire is only a word for Brain to rule over blood. A word repeated because the We thinks they know what truth means. The We thinks there’s love in the traces that bring us together, not knowing that our blood is only a sentence. Penance. Penalty from certain sins carved in our veins before they were threads holding us together. Rivers of anger. Currents and currency.

Inside our guts we carry the history of what could have been. Fiction builds our muscles and marrow. The inaccessible beginning of what I claim as the We. That kind of perspective or sound or experience. That kind of erasure. The We are the creatures who are wild and sweet. The We, who are endless. Concave. Lost. Empty. Who have forbidden touch and closeness. Skin against skin. Teeth and tendons.

Brain is voyeuristic, writing love stories to what it can hide: glial cells and myelinated axons. Nerve cell bodies and branching dendrites. Cells coming from individuals other than it’s owner. There. Memory and Identity. There. Entertainment for Brain to laugh at the fragility of bodies, really.

And the We will say memory or say nothing, nothing at all.