asia dreams of killing fields. and loneliness. of being alone. and human. she probably thinks. aren't we all just one small step away from being. slides the thought. the texture of the words. like whiskey unforgiving and not-long-forgotten. on the tongue. the throat. in the space of the things that bend. like knees. and the aftermath of slow nighttime mouths on ears and all those other bed-stained maps. the places. that are left unseen. obscure. obscene. these dark day moments when she stalks the long gone midnight waking streets of some dis-remembered voice. of you. asia really knows that she's always been a monster. and that she isn't a monster. anymore.