Containers, man. They’re fucking everywhere.

Everything in my house is a container. My books contain words and my shelves contain books and my cupboard contains glasses which will at some point contain liquid which contains the ability to hydrate and fill and satisfy and my kitchen is nothing more than a container for my cupboards and my refrigerator which contains food which contains the ability to fill and satisfy and make fat and sickness and which transforms my body into a container for feces which contains the future because it feeds the plants which feed the animals which feed me.

My head contains a brain which contains cells and electricity and spirit and soul and fire and fuck you. My pants contain cock which contains loneliness from lack of fondling. My shoes contain feet which contain cracking bones and colorless blood pumping ever upward.

Everything is inside something else and the universe which contains infinity and eternity is contained in the mind of god who is contained in the mind of man who basks in ignorance and bathes in brilliance and walks the earth containing life like light like fire.