listen. steal what joy you can when living this violent and short life. a single time-line -- a period lived -- is an epoch ruminating with none. we are cats awaiting guts strung -- whole intestine, specific -- for better resonance from hallowed body. from hand-crafted hollowed mass. perhaps this gutted vessel imbibed the desk-liquor with hope and want for muse of mans' own hands. perhaps John Henry split my heart, and i seek retribution with pointless pen strokes. smoking, intention broke from form, if only to deceive that these hands will never callous climbing mountains. will never rip wide this chest. will never witness in true this full-moon heart. perhaps stubbornness will prevail, per chance I will be found witness of the ball-lightning striking valley walls and boulders, perched ageless, are haven sought.