There is no super­io­ri­ty in making things or in re-making things. It’s like eve­ry­thing else, old men who go fishing, hair exten­sions, nail art, indi­vi­dual false eye­lashes glued on with semi-per­ma­nent glue, sewing clothes and re-sewing clothes, sket­ching, sket­ching ani­mals, sket­ching human faces, sket­ching flo­wers, gro­wing flo­wers, flo­wers, flo­wers that might even be mari­golds and petu­nias, per­fume that smells like par­ty girls, per­fume that smells like dowa­gers, per­fume that does not smell like flo­wers or more like flo­wers mixed with the urine of jungle ani­mals and some tobac­co smoke, per­fume that does not smell like men, one faux-Chanel ear­ring, sun­glasses resem­bling those of RAF lea­der Ulrike Meinhof, hair pin­ned up on one side, purses that are not real, pockets on dresses and skirts, dresses and skirts, blouses without but­tons, limi­ting each type of pos­ses­sion to one old suit­case full of that type of pos­ses­sion, track suits with rhi­nes­tones, zip up one­sie track suits, plump women, fat chil­dren, fat dogs, slen­der men, pho­tos of Angelica Houston, the cra­cked dir­ty swim­ming pools of low-rent apart­ment com­plexes, bleach-hai­red boys smo­king dope against the chain-link fence, the wor­kers wal­king to their strip mall jobs, the strip malls, the dumps­ters behind the strip malls, the karaoke nights in the bars in the strip malls, phy­sique trai­ning, hyper­tro­phy, very hea­vy weights, Juicy Stacey, Toy Selectah, eve­ry apart­ment com­plex having its own ducks, waking each spring mor­ning to those ducks, the sta­te­less state of contract labor, the invi­sible iv also the invi­sible cathe­ter, eve­ryone hug­ging the duct tape repli­ca like star­ving lit­tle rhe­sus mon­keys, eve­ry­thing in the eve­ry­thing like “there is no world but the world!”