Toilets have no remorse

Toilets are the depositories of secrets. Private havens for cloaking our relationship with filth. Then again, how much can sophistication hide? Up until the moment we manage to leave our bodies behind and download our essence into the infrastructure, the primitive functioning of the body is part of our story. A part of our crime. As all stories are stories of crime. I often think of the architecture of toilets, how do they have us forget that we are in the public? Doors are not enough, false memories are created. Every time I go to a toilet, I feel like I have seen it before. Where? On a plane, on a different continent?

Hygiene as a system exists to culturally differentiate us from animals. If we are able to make peace with filth, where will the boundary of the proper still be drawn? At which coordinates?

Birds in the sky, elaborate mythologies, elevation is of course needed. Else gravity will consume.