Stale soldiers swell at the stiffness of the season.

They find themselves forced outwards by the corners of the earth, by the soft gasps that entitle the shell to its thick, soft gesture. The murderers clap their soles at the foot of a cold stark white institute who moans like a lonely faucet. These raccoons sift through their carnal hunger like a suit of cards searching for the willingness in the stubborn singularity that shivers before them. The wide, white institute follows the lines of an avocado as it stands uncut, undisturbed and committed to its lack of pit. It does not shuffle in the barbarians confused clatter but maintains a faint, wistful shift in its decentered drawl. The bone of the boots knock in a persistent curiousity against the surface that beholds a cavalier without its legs or legendary king. He who does not quite find buoyancy in the unopened should surrender to his losses, flatten and recede without dissolving flesh from cartilage. But this fear apprehends no attention from the swaggering shoulders and squealing toes of the all armed wo/men so they continue to dash in indulgence. Each knock to the tall, white, gaze expects a deliverance from appetite. Each attempt to overthrow the serenity of the spayed figure concludes in a pause, dissolves in a sip from a glass that has neared empty UNTIL the restless commotion surpasses the sound of pits and bones. The corrupted splinters that gnaw on the plunging lines of the institute bend as the sound of a seesaw recently abandoned. The visitors chase the sound of their own absence while the click of their boots reclaim their origin: a breath in through the nostrils. Jagged, impatient gasps pour out of the soldiers who stand circled at the foot of the institute, hot human air pushing the stark white image to a horizontal state. A boiling laughter exits the soldiers colossal cheek as they too sell themselves sideways covered in appetite.

Their hunger leads them to follow the spine of the roll across a netted platform full of dust and confronted by a unifying juncture. The soldiers tumble out away from the platform, down, to follow the now silent sprawled yawn: It is as if the visitor's first look in injects their first childhood recollection of waking up. waking up, and remembering that their skin is their body is their blood and has no spirit of sand or soil and only begins with sheets; that is, where mineral is without monarchy.