DNA is your bar code, your chip, your genus, your species,
your individuality, your history, your book, your genetic fingerprint all on a tiny chip embedded in every cell of your body. This is better than conspiracy, Nostradamus, and Revelations all put together. Birth is like scanning your goods through the supermarket checkout counter. Every act of sex is like inserting your ATM card and making a deposit. Death means turning in your coded key card at the hotel checkout desk, then waiting for the final reckoning. Only then do you find out about the tourist tax every state levies on the casual traveler. Every drool of spit is a blueprint to your physicality, if not your personality, complete with working title and nervous twitches, sexual preference: studs or bitches? You only get to fill in the blanks of a form getting longer with time, shorter on space. Junk DNA litters the passageways like dead ends in Istanbul, words that once had meaning until the entire context changed. Still the mud sticks to your shoes leaving a trail for the detectives to follow. Art imitates life, but poorly. You could never dream something like this up.