Sub-Basement Sanctuary

I begin my nightly pilgrimage,
past shop windows and forgotten models,
seeking that sub-basement sanctuary
where two locks guard my dignity.

Alone, I shed my burdens—
architectural and intestinal.
In my refuge—my oasis—
time pauses, stress dissolves,
and my bowels draft their own manifesto,
backed by a choir gurgling hymns.

Atop the throne of porcelain peace,
my insides proclaim their resistance
to the studio’s merciless churn.