Is this the beat of my soul beating my skull? I am suspended without myself, hovering in the rearward caverns, moist and musty for lack of use. There are cinders and dust on my tongue. The longer I sit, the more restless my hands become, squealing murder. Avenge, they twitter, Avenge you upon yourself, and feel that metallic tear in your skin, an untwisting of seams, the undoing of what seems to be. Punish, punish, squall in the night and slap a distraction upon the wound. If you bleed, you cannot feel the red in your brain. If you bleed, the burn drowns the hurt. If you grit your teeth and smother, your fight for breath takes precedence over your agony. If you bleed until you are sapped of the hum of life, you forget; oh how you forget.