August nights are warm. My grandfather used to say we put buttons on the world and then pressed the wrong sequence. Then he would mock us all with a dark laughter that was almost unbearable.

I wear black shorts for my watch. No one ever sees this bench below the bridge, not even at noon, when the world is yellow and I am dying the slow death of the middle class, one screen at a time.
My grandmother taught me the art of being quiet as if my life depended on it. We used to play this game where my grandpa would come and she would tremble and cry and toss me under the bed before he could tell I was there.
I remember her teeth, grinding almost inaudibly in the dark.

In a sense, she taught to mimic inanimate things because that is the best way to prevent strong emotions from weakening the Self. Walls are immutable. Bridges have no weak spots, no hidden locks. The Sun burns,...