Curtain—our black cloth dermis obscures our very identity—our humanness—our light. Our black cloth dermis offers no proof, no truth, and no evidence of a worthy existence.
So when the word ‘suspect’ crackles on the radio—dances and animates itself onto the middle of my television screen, as if it’s on a disco floor. When the word suspect is the only thing covered in white—letters so pure and innocent. I turn off the TV—back to inanimate black—my reflection—I suspect the blue and white jargon has stole my only light and life.