the callous on my fourth finger has disappeared when I attempt a semblance of a sentence my hands fist fight with each other and i'm left feeling wiped out like I should probably put the words back into my mouth but the fluttering movement of my bones working with joint leaves me feeling exasperated to see what comes of it the knuckles turn a peach white and I can suddenly see that my scrawl on the paper is running around in loopy circles sometimes they embrace to create something entirely newΒ Β they grab their bodies like they're nothing without the other foreign nonsense in between spaces but there's always space you need that distance to make sure there's room for the empty and I have come to establish a rhythmic nodding of head bobbling of body lulling of mind when I interact with the dialogue my hands jump off my table and lament that the writer has become too conceptual this time