Puta madre conceptual garden sub specie aeternitatis, where every deed happens.

Truth is a bitch.  Say the truth and you will be smacked around.
out-of-place, naturally dislocated
Nymphaea looked for her earring on living room floor carpet. She said she has bad eyes. Great Horned Owl in her, in her bra was tightly pressured against her skin. Wanted to study her pressure marks, sunken bloodless steps on her, leaps of red. I thought it must have hurt to wear such bra. To wear underwear she did shaping her form. She always had a nightgown for me with a cartoon figure. I loved her furniture. She hung her jewelry on corners of her dressing table with oval shape mirror. Smelling her bottles. Her sheets, her plastic pearls, her things, her and valuables, details, piles of magazines. Hers, language of her. I looked for it through her hanging clothes sitting on the floor. I poured everything that was in the box on the floor.
 
language of clichés
language of beauty
language of trauma
language of banality
language of architecture
language of aggression
language of being a child
language of being alive
language of acting out
language of close
language of an old woman
language of dust
language of turquoise