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So it’s like this: first the microplastics would throw themselves against my ribs when I thought about fare evasion or tripping skateboarders or things like that but then they lost interest in morality and moved to form, making these grids of great towers, then they built a tower so tall it was Babel-ed by some god, no, I don’t know which or where or why again, and then of course I couldn’t tell what my plastics were saying and they couldn’t tell what they were saying, it was all quite loud, but even over the noise it became pretty clear that the course of early human history was playing out upon my insides (Linear A, Linear B, outrigger canoes traversing my lymphatic system, many strange bears scratched onto my cave walls, many strange jokes scratched into tablets which my plastics refuse to explain) and then I was becoming Rome, the path of aqueducts along my intestines, yes, both the large and the small, are unmistakable, and so I can’t be your girlfriend — your plastics are building Carthage, you see, and I just don’t think this will work out long-term.
