I took with me everywhere else I’d been before. I’d bought a house on a corner and dismantled it like a stage-hand. When I spoke, my voice sounded like everything. When my neighbors asked if they should be worried, I said I wasn’t there to swallow and crush them into infinitesimal things. So, I stayed in the neighborhood, attended parties, went to meetings, got a job at the demolition company. The women in town wanted to date me, but they didn’t know why, or how. Once, someone asked if I ever wore clothes, and I responded that I was coated inside with everything I’d ever seen. Does anything ever come back? someone asked. I didn’t know. What was it like to be a black hole? I said the only word for it was “hungry.” I said my body was a library of the forgotten.