Placing cold hands under the armpits, jitters quiver to end. Squeezing tightly and gently at the same time, breath is deep, breath carries quick to a pace. Watching the light over the break tip over into the eyes and shield all manner of shadows running along the horizon is the kind of past time for the dawn to enter into. Thar be silhouettes with no arms. No arms leaving them with no armpits by default.
For all the hands and all the sleeves in the world, nothing comes close to the detemination that comes underfoot. A mighty swing and all the cards flutter without any pants. No pants and no arms. nothing but the context. Nothing but the essence.
Oh where now lies the head?
Written on Wednesday, 15 August 2007