i shred paper for hecate, the receipts of expenditures past call up burnt out love, moments money polished but couldn't hold. tax returns dear a kind of diary, my own clinging disgusts me, i clutch the official out of fear, a messy, resentful grasp, darling gilles interred. that is, encrypted, your exemption stands in for the experience of spending, the contract is social. agree to the state and all its paper. i'd buy a shredder but i can't bear another object. i'd burn it, but even ghosts want paint slash ingots, not these ugly calculations. what if they're wrong, and i've torn them up before the auditor general has a chance to come for me? here's a plane ticket to hong kong in 1993. why is a photograph or a cheongsam any better? what's mutual about these funds? my middle classes horror, but you can't even give it away.