Today I am a slow string, wound among scraps in a straggled rug. The strings at the centre are neat, start and finish in line, hide each other’s looseness; depravity is buried in tight tessellations of similar bodies. But I am at the edge and they cannot hide the ends of me.
The metaphysics is easily grasped: to be a string is to be all sides and no corners; all clarity, no secrets. But I, who am string, have developed complexity; I long for corners now. They pull me back; I twist away. They cannot hide the ends of me.