The Niche

There is fear about woodwork and nighttime. They are so unevenly connected. You cut off your arms to make it better, you say, I am plain, this way I can be better. I open up the freezer door. There is chopped up meat inside hanging from the rafters, hacked and frozen. I am trying to figure out what to make for dinner tonight. I will be better if I can make dinner. For once, if everything goes where it is supposed to, I will be satisfied. I will be satiated and full. This goes here, and your arms go back to your body, they will go back, at least when you die.