they stare at a spot on the wall where they killed a mosquito last summer, just after they’d moved in. They’d left the bloody smear there rather than trying to wash or scratch it off. It was a badge of ownership, even though they don’t own the room, only the items and things they do inside of it, and anyway, is ownership even something they aspire to when it is, under capitalism, nearly always a matter of bloody violence when you get right down to it? Why should they want to own anything but their own self, damaged goods that they may be?
