Watch as the invisible man sticks his head into the moulding of the wall; the pinky fingers of his adolescence still stuck in the holes where they grew and suddenly couldn’t escape anymore. Splinters litter the skin near his knuckle like a piece of sadistic human art, a new ‘modern.’

Your toes are wiggling with the still-present tingle of the grass from your childhood backyard, the dirt still stuck to your heel where you chased that dog from one planter box to another. You ruined your mother’s zinnias.

Now nailed into a concept, a magazine review, a dusty book on a junk shelf in an attic that everyone forgot existed. You’re waiting to be uncovered my grandchildren exploring an old house, but they picked up the cover with the pictures instead.

You are not a person, but you are coveted. Worth everything, yet worth nothing at the same time. You could go for a solid thousand at an auction, but you’re hardly a penny’s worth to fingers covered in breakfast jam and toast crumbs.

Your opinion is of no value, but the fingerpainting done by the last reader, stuck to the inner corners of page 312—the page a proud mother tore out years ago0—is held up by magnets on the refrigerator. Nobody ever took it down.