On things Left unsaid

And unwritten, even.

There is a reason I do not give the name of the author when I quote this book. If you know them, then you will recognize the quote--or at least, the manner of the quote. If you do not, then I will wait until you find it.
I have no business fussing up your memory; that is yours. And this, alluding to things that I want you to find, or perhaps not find, is mine.

~

You're so chatty. Not literally; but you seem the embodiment of the idea of talking sometimes. And I wonder at that eagerness to speak. To capture (click). To just sit still, there, don't move until I get this little pin through you--there. Got it.

And do not mistake this for an act of killing--the specimen is already dead, courtesy of a killing jar.
This is a collection of dead differences.

I have read that this is supposed to be the paralyzed state, that of collection. It is sameness; it is differences when they no longer matter. Dead things don't play.
But look, it is there still--even amongst the dead things, the collecting, there are things one is not allowed to collect; even amidst what is already (socially?) unacceptable, there is something that pushes it's fingers out into taboo.

These are the things we do not do, you say.
Pics or I ain't doin' shit, I say.

Ten thousand bugs on pins behind glass--that's impressive. Maybe weird, but impressive. But this? What is this? Why is it so taboo? But it isn't, really--so why do I like thinking of it this way?

I am not killing or collecting or caging. I am not catching or releasing--I am not touching at all. I am watching. I am lurking. I am creeping up against the wall. I am collecting the ellipses you leave behind when you speak.

What happens when you do not collect the non living? Throw out the stamps; clear out the dead bodies. What do you have left? Nothing. But the collector always has something, and always wants moar.

The collector of debts wants more. Not your money, but your debts. The holes in your pockets, the ones in your socks, every last one is wanted. You will get all that you need, because this collector will never want to be payed back--this collector is as fond of your debts as others are of the money you keep bringing them. And so the debts grow. You don't try to tell yourself to stop--you're in word debt, too. You are being robbed blind by being provided so comfortably for.
And by the end of it, you won't know a thing, nor have proof of any crime--you'll be alive, flesh and blood, while the collector of debts has glutted on your debts and nixed out of existence.

Where does all that sweet nothing go, sucked out like a spider does? And what are you left with? I wonder if it is this type of collector that makes the other--a void with a bowler cap that prods one other into wanting...everything: that is, something through everything. No movement in the objects of the collector, perhaps, but maybe there is some between collectors.