In the style of Pessoa which is to say in the style of mercury, of shifting shapes, clouds, mega conglomerate alchemy. The impossible Tuesday midnight discovery of animal dimensions. Unwieldy Duchamp machines that do not make good coffee but trap you in a hairline fracture between several versions of yourself. You say it’s a bottle with a city of amber souls. Quiet energy without precision, in the style of Charlie Chaplin and the god Proteus, which is to say, anything that rhymes with a mirror or disables rational thought via contradiction and radioactive decay. A thoughtless shepherd’s promise and the post-romantic phrase that shatters a child’s ego. In the style of commodified parrots and bombastic cliches, of everything that has come before but not quite the same. In the style of the world imitating itself in the style of itself.