stains so deep they can see no end. stains so many they can hardly be seen. wrinkles like gashes and dirt formed shadows. my fingers swim for the end of a sleeve. and i can't understand. it's just my dad's old shift. it fit him so well. starched rigid. firmly creased. he grew into it and it grew into him. now i can't hear myself through all the sounds in my head. they all tell me exactly what i want. just call me tetris. i've got the headache. nothing fits and nothing disappears. call me tetris. i can't close my eyes on it.