My friend was right. The old guy at the counter
was almost right. But I don’t care about
the price of eggs. I live so close I leave to
pee in my apartment. Who buys eggs? I
have enough of my own in storage. I bake
cinnamon rolls with eggs. Put one in a
waffle. But water—I drink it, excrete it,
need a place to pee it. I use urinals
out of fear. I am safest when I might
piss myself, when I keep lies in the
pocket of my briefs. In another world,
these lies have the power to turn
eggs into chickens.