When I was a man, I took something that wasn't mine. Now I can't give it back. I am a boy, now. I sometimes sit alone in my room, but no tears come. It's not that I'm not sad. I have a hole in my chest. It's like a bullet wound, but much bigger. It's like an eggshell, the edges keep getting peeled off. They crumble as they sink towards my stomach. I don't taste them, but I feel them. They tear holes inside me. I eat, but it's bland. A mechanical motion which puts meat in the hole, but it just falls through. The hole's bigger than the one I tried to dig, but I'm not very good with tools. There's a hole in my shell, my yolk falls out, but nothing sucks my whites out. Perhaps her empty shell would accept my yolk. With some care, it could keep it warm. Perhaps a chick would grow inside. The chicken came before the egg, before it'd come around. The chicken that protected the egg, that held it tight. The chicken that wanted to touch the egg. Have you ever tried to hold an egg's insides with two fingers? Chickens don't have palms. The egg got hard boiled. Someone painted it blue. It was hidden one night, but nobody found it the next day. Does the egg know where it is? Does it know it's buried in the bush, next to the grass? Or does it just think it's somewhere lonely. Cold. Dark. What does the egg think about? Why did the chicken lay me? I'm alone, nobody can find me. I don't know where I am. Can I go back to the nest? I sit on the bed, and think about chickens and eggs. So many eggs are produced. Cholesterol. Raised blood pressure. An egg's pretty tough, but once you break it, it won't go back together again. Chickens run around without their heads. They get eaten too, ground up in the stomach of the master. A chicken in a cage lays lots of eggs, but it isn't satisfied. Not like a chicken in the wild. An egg is a great experience, it's full of life. It takes work, dedication. A chicken in a cage sends the egg through, drops it and forgets about it. But what if not all chickens are like that? What if some of them are attached to the egg. They put part of themselves into the egg, they grow with the egg, become attached. But then they lay the egg, and it rolls away, shocked by the cold, faced with a bleak life. Does the chicken try to get out of the cage? When it fails, does the chicken peck at itself? Trying to free itself and join the egg. Eggs don't have umbilical cords. They come out, ready to meet the world. No connection necessary. One mother's as good as another. But as I reach inside this hole, trying to probe the yolk. There's something inside me. I feel something long and thin. It gets thick in places, and then you almost can't feel it. It's not attached to my shell, but I can't seem to move it at the base. I can't find the end of it. It leads out from my body. I touch it and it feels of silk. It seems to wrap around my finger, then recoil away. I am a chicken, and this cord shall lead me to the egg. Maybe the shell isn't perfect. Maybe there's a hole, where the insides got blown out. If I pull on it, will the hole get bigger?