Here is a poem not from that thesis I mentioned.

Nail Problem

In the beginning, everyone bites their nails and spits out the nail-bits. If you aren’t quick enough, somebody may come along and bite the white tip of your nails off for you.

Eventually, there is a layer of chewed nail that covers everything, like sharp snow. This is a problem, but it’s not like anybody can help it. Everyone knows this is a bad habit, and gets deeply embarrassed when they find their hands in their mouths.

People begin to mistake most of everything said for something about nails.

How are you?

My nails are just fine, thank you.

Nice weather, today.

Yeah, my nails are pretty sore, too.

The world slowly moves inside and huddles up in dark corners, alone, to feed their dirty habit. Most of the time, they are waiting for them to grow.

I knock on your door, and hear soft clicking, but you don’t answer. I float onward, marveling at how empty the world is, like a ghost after some great holocaust, repeating to myself nail, nail, nail, nail, but meaning something else entirely.