When I was a boy, we called it punishmentto be locked up in a room. God's apparent
abdication from the affairs of the worldseemed unforgivable. This morning,
climbing five stories to my apartment,I remember my father's angry voice
mixed up with anxiety & love. As always,the possibility of home—at best an ideal—
remains illusory, so I read Plato, for whom lovehas not been punctured. I sprawl on the carpet,
like a worm composting, understanding thingsabout which I have no empirical knowledge.
Though the door is locked, I am free.
Like an outdated map, my borders are changing.