We live to keep unraveling the past, painting the same canvas anew, writing off versions of us we’ve forgotten. Some of us, the demented outsiders, do it a little differently. We graze at the embroideries, and we blow the loose threads out in the Universe–an incoherent, hyphenated reflection–a toss of thoughts that blurs the contours of all the meanings that have been within us. Those who reject our hyphens, maul them and turn them crooked with their euphemisms never acknowledge the disservice done to our splendid crumbs–the little artless bites of reality. And yet we loaf about, asteroids in the eternal blackness, crumpled bits of stories, crooked hyphens down the road.