From dust thou art come,
to dust thou shalt return,

The black-ennui radiates through matter:
without compassion, without distraction
and without acceptance,

Dust gathers in corners,
forming the contours of a death god,

Dried blood on linen—the only whisper
of times long past,

Obsessed with the theory of black holes,
I could use one in my storeroom,

A parody of equality—
one must be healthy in order to be ill.