every cycle begins in the cell. to live here & to have lived here. there was noise at first. footsteps. this feels like a set up, a re-enactment of already-articulated movements holding forth in the enclosure. vague administration supplanting brute implementation. i wanna be just like that. if its not this, or work, then its accumulation of this as work for itself not unlike the night we first met. going into that (we were always going into that any way we could find), into a situation with stakes, a pretext for looking back over shoulders only to have lost forever what we came back for in order to begin. again, footsteps. a giant upheaval outside & a bottleneck at the entrance. echoes of maintenance memories glance off vast planes of uninterupted anti-microbial happening. so, we weren't sure how to get out of the individuated apparatus other than the moment we came back to ourselves as not nothing but other than ourselves before we had entered & again when we left. the bottlenecking occuring then offered a grainy solution: that rather than leaving, we linger with the abrupt dispersions, in the yet-to-be smooth-to-touch inscription upon the surface of things, towards a rhythm suggesting another breath or two before withdrawal before fortification before submission to a slippery sequence of stills.