|
Once upon a time, my little bird, you were saying. Then the therapeutic architecture, its medical practice sprayed thick over walls and fixtures alike in anticipation of each new tenant, opened wide in a tiny, repeated gasp of cancellation, swallowing your evidence in this incredulous and barely articulate displacement of pitch and timbre by pure, iterated rhythm, as if it were a quiet conflict approaching silence, becoming a branded product, and we promptly forgot it all, and had to wait to recall you as an after-effect of our own belated recognition of a housing crisis. |