Does this Data Make Me Look Fat?
I am hiding from the algorithm in fossilized dinosaur egg. It’s warm here but too moist like a hotel room that smells of a previous guest’s saliva. From inside, I can’t hear the ghosts digging under the carpet or see the white glove as it slides off the photo of an old woman’s hand.
My mother’s voice is the only sound I hear, but she’s speaking some ancestor’s mother tongue that I can’t understand. Her words sound like the color of smoke… the frequency of movie theater red, the puckered mouths of hot dog tails.
Years ago, I flew over the city in a helicopter, watched another version of myself on the street below. The other me was clicking on the screen of an oversized cell. I could tell that she had better teeth than I did. She was wittier, and her skin has fewer blotches. When I spoke, I longed for her voice to come flowing out of my mouth.
For almost an hour, I held my lips open but only a breeze streamed out.
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