Perhaps the only thing that belongs to you
is your belief that things are yours.

The illusion of continuity.
The seeming severity of serenity.

The insistence that one choose
a superficial depth or a deep superficiality.

I'm smart enough to know
I'm not smart enough to know.

Everyone wants to sell you the world
while only renting you a place in it.

Our rooms come furnished with fuel,
fueled with furnishings, furbishings.

Give me a large enough window and an enticing view,
and I shall defenestrate the world.