I want to plug up the remaining cracks with my fingers and chalk the seams and joints of the sides and mash together the broken remnants and mold everything into the tightest little ball, re-modelling like the clay geniuses, globular and firm and visible all the way around, so that nothing new enters and everything old and dirty and abused has already left, a perfectly clean beginning but really not a beginning at all nor an end, nothingness (limbo?), a slice of understated and lesser-known freedom, held in perpetual motion, whirring quietly, bathed and cupped so tenderly, every little particle is loved, loveloveloved, everything so that I never have to feel like this again.