When I'm cooking I have the feeling that I don't exist so I run into the hallway and knock on the apartment-doors until all the apartment-doors are open and there are people and the people are watching me and I'm moving quietly up and down the hallway and the people watch me until I know I probably exist

I wanted to make this poem better but it's impossible

And most actions are impossible like cooking and breathing and talking with words that have actual and corresponding objects

Because even if things correspond I'm only a body with skin and my skin and body's sometimes clothed or unclothed but otherwise like a microwave-oven I think or rice-cooker or toaster or toaster-oven or something

Which I love because I love every object

I can eat

Which's why I hate myself and want to be destroyed instantly

And without reason

So I tell me neighbors in careful and clear words to destroy me

'It's okay to stab me' I say 'I'll write a note saying it's okay and that I approve violent stab wounds' or 'to be burned now in my kitchen would be wonderful and I'll help you gather incendiaries or something'

And people laugh sometimes until I say 'I'm serious'

'I'm really serious and I'd stab a walrus to prove it'

But nobody has a walrus to stab and the blubber's too thick probably so I cook gnocchi and give it to this guy who lives across the hall and he eats the gnocchi angrily because he hates food and eating and everything