Here we pirouette the thumbprint like a kiss. And thus a false map gets scrawled out, keeping the idea of home something to keep. This adds to a sense of stability, where we are, the thumb, always unique to us. The object grows and caresses it’s own fake daughters like islands in a shallow dish. The idea is to never leave. Sounds become words and words become irresponsible cartoons. They fall like dead bodies fall when left to their own devices.
To flatter a human baby is to simply smile and coo. To take the time to clean up the shit they made, to glee at the sight of it all: you made something. Songs plays and baby claps hands. Baby cries and wants a bottle. Baby gets a bottle and baby is satisfied. Baby sleeps through the night or doesn’t sleep through the night and sometimes baby doesn’t wake up at all and Mommy doesn’t sleep at all anymore and Daddy finds a way to sleep with another Mommy called Trish.
Consciousness, so the bicameralists claim, is communication in a nut. We are kept rigid with emotion and keep talking about it to try to make us seem soft again, only creating heat where there was always enough heat to begin with.
And so we explode instead.
