It's impossible not to be changed by my old, humming fridge, sturdy, unphased by its lack of futuristic appeal, a white box born cool, not yet collected for the landfill, still eating my ice cream and vomiting it out on command, talking the way it talks-- brrrrr Authentic, dark and dirty, Authentic, dark and dirty, so I've been born an ugly man, too awkward and too nerdy, long dead before I'm killed, a hungry zombie unfulfilled, I want to eat your brains, I want to eat your brains. It's impossible not to be changed by my gray walls. They look at me. I look back at their molding, furrowed, it seeks to browbeat me, but I can't be cowed. I shall not be mooed. My hand bursts from my dirty home, I walk slow, but you're bound to trip over your tasteless garden gnome, into your your shoulder I will rip with fake teeth I've been buried with, my life spent with poor dental health won't save you from my undead grip I belch out pieces of a belt. I've matured the way my old apartment matures with an old tub better than those recent, deep, deeper than pooled learning of performers in conference rooms presenting with software built by builders building babel shaken by thunder, struck by light inevitable, confusing establishment upholders, their hierarchy undermined by a fart I let out in the bath.