There is nothing like the buzzing of your own heart in your own ears. Nothing greater nothing worse only dissonant rhythmic changes as you rise and fall.
The pound pound pound of pulse breaking through innocent blue veins, coaxing a response out of limp, lifeless wrists.
You scratch, nothing but swift, apathetic strokes while knives slice pomegranates too full too excited to resist spilling everything.
One inch is one state two miles of thousands on the map but the key camouflages the most convenient escape routes.
If you want to touch and feel, find refuge, be alive: fight with the ***** deckhands, throw your hands up, let it be.