I feel like a five-star restaurant, but I am a fish. I feel like an ethical imperative, but I am a listicle. I feel like an aesthetic, but I’m wrong. I’m a listicle. I feel like one discrete packet of data, but I know that I am wrong, too. I am all kinds of data. I am video, I am audio. I am a listicle. I feel like a body, but I know that that’s wrong. I am skin over time that turns to dust, and I wipe the dust off of my TV, I wipe it off my souvenirs and my tchotchkes, my prints from IKEA, my laptop. I feel like a writer, but I am a bunch of cells growing hair, all different kinds of cells, all different kinds of hair. If I were a poem, I’d be a listicle. If I were something in a museum, I’d be a listicle, at the listicle museum. I was once a little kid, on a field trip touching sculptures, picking my nose, holding hands in one big line to cross the street with other children—one single clumsy, baby organism.

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I want to speak in water, or waves. I want to breathe in dough, then exhale loaves of bread. Or inhale eggs, flour and sugar, stand outside in cold weather, and exhale a fog of donuts. I want every thought I have to come out as a dog. Dogs that have died, future dogs come to life, the pads of their paws. Let me be a spectacled bear, in the cloud forest mountains of South America. Let my lips part like a fridge, and chill white light rush out for miles. Inside, radiant purple cabbage, fresh pink tuna and salmon, green bottles of ginger ale. Strawberry milk and raw milk, kimchi. Super-dark chocolate and blueberries. A little red meat.