The incandescent lights of midnight convenience stores always cut my shadow into three parts: one is the newbie of the detective agency, one is the artist cleaning up the corpse, and the other is curled up in the mirror, writing equations that I can't understand with bloody fingernails.
I enjoy the process, like someone obsessed with piecing together broken pieces of porcelain. But lately those shattered organs have begun to speak to me, they've begun to spell out my name in formalin bubbles and draw the windows of my childhood in coagulated plasma. The worst thing is that when I licked the cerebrospinal fluid from the corner of my mouth, I tasted myself - as if my knife had cut open myself a hundred thousand times in parallel time and space.
Now, lying in my memo, is a confession that will never be finished.
Intention: None