We are the moving feet, the painted knees. We are the buyers, the dealers, rare art. We are the neon mass singing on the front step, the pill-tripped wordless hiding in the basement. We are cement enamored impermanence, scientists evolved of doubt. We are the new red. We are less insistent. We are preachers confined by indifference, speaking syllables more jagged than tongues. We are self-reflective, or never improving. We are discontent, so barely moving. We, the days refused turned pages. We take seconds to smell branches. We use hours to taste bricks. We know that only scent’s a landscape and only-speech is a larger request. We are the robots that consider death. We are the humans in a sea of mechanical limbs. We are the sweet-stained, unbathed, touchable, intangible, intellects of art, a question to each answer, impatient, every stray. We are the metal feet, the dancing knees. We, the wes we bar ourselves between.