I posed in front of your grave like a tourist, got sticky rolling on your kitchen floor when no one could see. When I held your words in my mouth and they praised me, was it for my work or yours? So many times I fell through the mirror held to nature, no longer could I taste the difference between sense and nonsense. Still crawling, a baby, on the floor of your centuries cold kitchen, four hundred years from its last warm hearth, whose life was I living? Better yet, who was I trying to fool?