I’ve been thinking about how surveillance desires a performance of exhaustion: a fast paced dance but without the death in dehydrating overflowing rhythm.

Uncovering the source of becoming means confronting a striptease of wounds that aren’t worth articulating.

We sever ourselves from our bodies when the friction against them is a heat wave that inhabits us from the materiality of skin.

When our bodies refuse to let go, we learn the language of clumsiness — fumbling to stitch back whatever holds the hope of preservation from a youth that awkwardly presents loss when least expected.

“Your absence has gone through me. Like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color,” W.S. Merwin writes.

Where do we stay if our bodies have been taught not to become?