When you can’t let any air in, you let in water.
I think about what it means for a bath to be made only of tears. My tears and yours, and all the rest. People bereaved and ecstatic all across the world. A tiny boy in Saigon whose croissant shattered.
A bath isn’t something you are in. A bath goes into you. Tears don’t come out of you. They go in.
The spray of the shower resembles cartoon tears, but there are no tears in the shower. A shower, like a penis, is a narrative. The bath and the vag are associative.
You can wake up in a strange bed, but there’s no such thing as a strange bath. It’s all one bath, all your life. You can’t take a new one. You return.
There’s only so much you can do.