The women sit amongst one another, speaking of hands and plans, whilst I myself remain anchored to a chair, using my own to tug on what remains of my thinning hair. This is why I lick the back of my teeth and this is why I cannot speak.
I am above wondering what a life contains: the moments of swallowed words, lost dreams and particles of dust, gutted & compacted lightly calicified in my spine. My mind, captive since that time when my flesh was still peachlike & ******. How it flies forth, How I lie back.
The charade progresses, I swallow. Still hollow, with the hallows of being. Those hands the women revere, dizzy my head.