I implode a space. Construct. The only thing living inside this space is myself. The human fallacy. Arrogance of environment mutation. A roof, then walls, then airtight gaskets. Perfection. We breed our own bacteria in a closed environment. I exhale my own shit. My taste buds have adapted to attune finely to denial. My tongue still thinks air is empty space. I hold my breath for as long as I can and do not correct it.  Skin is falling apart every second. It's a habit. Not to be wasted, we decant it like fine wine. We plate  it and spear the flakes on the tiniest of toothpicks. I compare the vintages of myself. None is better. I have an infinite supply. You walk around like you invented circles to pace in. I try not to think of the bottom of your shoe. You hoard my skin there.  I have decided to forgive. My heart still thinks forgiveness is empty space. I hold my breath for as long as I can and do not correct it.  Silence. Another human fallacy. I touch my skin with my skin. Can we remember it.