I remember thinking refineries produced clouds, dream factories spilling fluffy hope into the sky. But then I grew up and saw that they were just fountains pumping poison down through our nostrils until they ate our lungs away. Still as I drive past, I see the smoke sloughing out of the chimneys and can’t help but find it beautiful even as I breathe the death deep down into my veins. I watch them pass from my windows and can’t help but be relieved that I am driving alone. My hands are made of human paper that has been bent into ugly origami so often in the past and they are so happy to be alone. They caress themselves, they hold each delicate part of my body so gently, they block my lips as I step outside and avoid the poisoned air of factories and the refined fallacy of people. My human paper hands and my tulip cupid’s bow are blooming for themselves in haunted, February air.