Lest we think, we cease to be,
and I ponder, therefore I am, indeed.
Good people, grasp something...
hold something.
Now nothing is produced, save sweat and salt,
dripping down the contours of leg, foot,
and heel.
Thus lathering the spot of downfall,
the spot of death.

Heel! Body, hark!
Harp,
but in harmony with the drums of mind.
With the drops of percussion, invisible and cried out from the ears.
Fashioned tears to shield you
from consequence.