Few have the courage through which the mind mines deeper the crevasse of what it is to be within. For me, the fox always runs faster than the foxhound can manage, whether it’s wordless, or crafting another fleshless armchair image. I weave myself into the fabric of a solitary sighing sick, building on granite toadstools stagnant. Got one foot out on the pavement, and the other somewhere else entirely. It’s like biting air in its entirety: you’ve got nothing to go on, no purchase. It fills lungs, but belly empty in dullness it sits. So I eat myself beyond aesthetics, beyond the back and forth from kitchen, to sateless late night mental acrobatics.