i wanted to write about my studio apartment but i couldn't find any pictures titled that way. i only go there for mail and to flush the toilet because the sewer gas seeps in and to run the rust from the pipes. now the co-op president has been fired and they have no money even to fix my broken mailbox. i want to save it, illogically, though it grieves me, and i don't want to live in it anymore, and i'm anxious about what will become of the museum of myself. perhaps it will be dispersed, perhaps logically, perhaps willy-nilly, perhaps by chance, perhaps by r. and me.