worm that wiggles inside my wrist felt and pressed unto the warm,wet grass of Scotland's afternoon, kissed to the dirt, connected to the rest of it's kind, bent backwardly to the continious pulse that represents all simontanious life, stripped of skin and cause, bound to be free one day, bound to swarm like ink through water: the universe's tinny pulse met between its ying and yang; built on reverbration and endless enough to makebelieve to be perfect for the moment, silently calling, running across death ears at the breadth of a witch's sowing needle, cosmic dice, archaic ruin, a thousand tunes rang mute with shyness, construction sites, royalistic virtues centuries had and quickly forgotten. AI whispering doom, gloomful suicide of reason--Amazon choked in mucky ash, all lost and pretending otherwise. History is but an abstract concept, but nostalgia relentlessly reserves it's rosey pulse and ties us pleasantly closer to the great,universal grave.