Folding the self inside the trust of the fort made by the curtain, the skin slips off and the intestines bulge out. The dryer lint we stuff inside during the day, spurts into space at night. The fabric loosens as the skin stretches to hold a child. Deleting exposure allows definitions of shapes to blur together. What do I spend my time doing? Priming, shaving, cutting, stripping, plucking. Where does this excess go? Into bags cloaked by light. We toss every thought with no place in the structure of day to day into the dark. At night, these glow and grow when we release control and fall into a smaller shape. An alarm immediately shoves these thoughts into tight spaces, suffocating them from air removing any sense of excess. I am talking here about what we stuff in the basement because our days give it no place. I am talking here about slicing parts of ourselves off so we can fit into the tunnels of transportation.