across all four walls – sprawling – is a black emptier than tar. sometime or so i forgot it. and being suspended in a depthless space does something to a body. so the hunger became something else too. he came carrying a narrow-necked bottle, asking me to empty it. i held it between finger and thumb, tipped it. he left telling me he would return when the task was done. salt gathered in my joints. i became sculpture, angled my bones convex so it became more difficult to move, less difficult to have eyes set upon you. the contents of the bottle streaming out at steady pace, lining the black floor of the room, seeping up the sides of the black wall and the black ceiling, holding itself there, until i’m at the centre of a cube, palm-sized. with little left i swallow what i’ve been holding in my mouth for decades, line my stomach with it. it vacuums up the last of the sitting black. and again you are yours. you are never not yours here.