1. [Golgi Apparatus] “Oi, c’mon get some work out,” nags the loud voice inside and the quieter voice outside, lopsided like a pair of balls. I gauge the gap between my gloopy internal stuff and my odourless branding. Then I rush. Something often goes missing before I export the file. It’s the raw pulp left in the strainer where the flavour is.

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 2. [Mitochondria] When I CBA, the voices go off-script. They cite centuries of sweat, luck and chains. “Isn’t it sweet you won’t be worked to death in fields and factories. Now do us a favour, some favours, many favours; there’s nothing unreasonable anymore because you’ll live”

 

3. [Nucleus] Serving and eating petri dishes of nostalgia salad and novelty soup, I take the soft bits that need warmth and put them outside. It can feel like slicing chunks off myself, putting stewed fruit in an egg mandolin. Between the wires, I lose tabs on who and how I became. On here, our lives play in stop-motion. The most you get is a cross section that’s 2 of 4 dimensions.

 

4. [Full cell] When I lose the bigger picture, I think of cell turnover. How thousands of pieces of me have lived and died to their fullest. I accept the freeing limitations of one lifetime with various degrees of strain. And then, like a miracle beta-blocker kicking in, it’s not that deep.