I touch, you touch, he touches. Or: we touch, you and I, we grope our way in the dark as he swans around the room? I know very little about you, I merely suspect you exist, since the moment I realized that neither he nor I are the owners of certain words. Like I finally noticed a blank space between he and I, and then – out of alienation, intuition, invention – sensed you, the owner of this space between his light and my dark. Do you touch, too? About you, I barely know anything. But you balance out the pure shadow that is between him and me.

So let’s not part ways, the three of us. When I believe I’m out, I’m in. And when I guess I’m in, I’m out. Of you or him, of me in me, embedded triplicity, though it might seem confusing I think about it this way, and it is nearly clear as the city roars in the background and I lean this body of ours over the seven overpasses: embedded triplicity, strange triplicity, intertwined triplicity. Triplicity forever conjoined, the death of one the death of all three, I don’t want you to help me kill him because it would kill you and also me. I recompose myself, I recompose you, and I recompose him, who is also me and also you.

A while later – now, I realize: it’s through the dark hallways of a maze that we grope our way, the three of us, searching for the vertex. I know you don’t understand, and I know he also doesn’t. About your day, I barely know anything, but I know about the maze in you, as I know about his maze in me, of my maze in you. I don’t understand you either.