I like the poison of unsaid words flowing in my veins. Its very benign but constant pinch subdues the knot of death in me. "I have to say this", "it is yet to be said"; the sublime boil of blood says this at every miniscule turn beneath my skin as if warmth tries to tell beads on cold air. Yin and yan meet and I continue on breathing, betting my everything on an uncertain moment in a distant future. What an absurd thing a human is!