Like some animal licking matted fur, the softness of the tongue on the softness of the wound. The sum of the wounds is a ball that expands according to its own clock, whenever it damn well pleases. Asserts itself always at the beginning of the day, I wake up to it, chattering its bad news into the ether. The ether is created by the imperative of the system; by the whoosh of blood and air through the tunnels of the body. This intent movement, going places, distribution. I lay on my bed trying to attach myself to the imperative of…