We spend a third of our life on mattresses. We sleep, dream, cuddle, fuck, drink coffee, read, recover, and die on them. We stain them. We piss on them as kids. Dab blood from them with cold rags. We make them in the morning. Living in a city means walking by abandoned mattresses on a regular basis. In Berlin, someone would tag them with black spray paint shit like “IT’S OVER” or “LOVE IS A MAD DOG FROM HELL.” I like how this one’s stained by whoknowshowmany years, but through a tear, some silky beauty’s still intact.