Three snails on my fingers, in my hair. They hang in the room, aluminum and letters. The seven vowels of a language: AEEIOOU Bruises. Belly laughter is a sensation that provokes more belly laughter. A swing of silver, acid, of throat and bite; sandwich that I heat in a stove —that we can really talk like this—. Tila Tiri Tisa Tide Tila Tiba Tirri Tiga. I make a ball with it all. This is a note on my own repertoire that attends to its binding nature. A way of assuming it as political-poetic material from which to infer a whole, form and flow, volume. An essay on complicity, discipline, language. Scratch, wrap, little word. Say. Hard. Finger. Chest painted on a facade. UUU, whoever laughs will pay.