The Bluest Bower Song of the Male Satin Bowerbird It takes years to dismantle yourself until all that's left are your eyes, planted: a flag, a flower, a horizontal plastic straw. Some will call this an ocean scattered, but the architecture of one's self is never cohesive, though it shifts like the sea. The colour blue can sound like anything when it's perfect. Even a doll's silent scream--look how it anticipates the roundness of my gaze. The trick lies in the chainsaw of a bottle cap, the way a dance slips like a camera shutter. To be yourself, you must first learn the world entirely, reflect it back as though it were your own. You must know how to always leave yourself behind, have somewhere else to go.