Pillars are holy. And the yellow plastic bowl in the kitchen. The light bounces off of everything in my life. I don’t want to shield myself — I want to be transparent, I promise. Pomegranates feel eternal too. My hands sink right through them, chew them like crushed blood. That’s how I want to see through the light in the kitchen on a Monday past midnight. The closest thing possible to the eternal, but the absolute furthest. The plastic foil. I have no weapon against it.