Dirty museums To have a memory never so nothinglike, is a tragic tragic thing. It is almost to not know when to believe, when to not believe. To have a part in your own memory, you severe a string with belief. That is comfortable, for once. But then, like a toy seller, you do not know; the Wednesday you believed in and the Wednesday you died, which one was real? Like a car's windows in winter rain, the memory colours itself. But you, you cannot see. And blindness is not a colour. We treasure love. We make museums. We have photos. We have restaurants. We have parks. But to know love as a bruise, as only a question, as only an answer, as only a coin in your begging bowl, you still have museums. But they are ridiculously little. And forgotten. And dirty. They only have a splintered coin and a blue skin to show for proof that they are museums. They are museums! There are wraps that rule. Tortillas. Burritos. Rolls. Exquisite gowns. Winter wear. Bandages. Curtains. Blankets. Sandcastles. Samosas. And Walls.
