Our sun pricks needles in my skin the moment I step outside the door. I retreat and revise, relocating to the cool oasis of concrete and vinyl. Here it smells like web, ash, and fur.  Every nook and cranny is a miniature vanitas; this place is a museum without patrons.

I will preserve these momentary photons on my complementary metal–oxide–semiconductor sensor.

I am the benefactor and viewer.

Soon, you will be too.

Snow white porcelain was the symbol of purity in Dutch still life painting.  These pieces are marred by cat hair and cob webs.  Entropy and calamity have brought them here together.  What could they mean today?

And here lies twine, once a great ruler of his time.  In shipyards and farmyards he was king of catastrophe. Now slowly consumed by eight legged, feline doom.  He sits in shit with nothing to fix.

And finally, what a travesty!

This could be surgical or clerical if the job description’s unclear.  It’s filthy with white from acid or base but nothing’s inside.  Like everything else it’s been attacked by thin legged beast, consumed by their silk and oxidizing in Florida’s tropical climate.

How many homes hold these solitary exhibitions?

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