There is hunger in my lungs. The intercostal tissue breathes in pieces, unsettled. It yearns with the rise and aches with the fall. There’s anger there. There’s anger there and the pressure builds. Dysfunction hides in plain sight.
Beside such activity, my hands are cast-down. Despondent. The paralysis festers, creeps from my fingers and cuts through my veins. Nerves stand-by. Apathetic. Dead space flows down the brachial. It shakes hands with paralysis and my fingers are gone. Gone. Then there is some reaction, finally a reaction. This heart beats in a fever. Blood fills the cavity of my chest, capillaries drown in the crowd of their passenger.
I’m still. There’s music, not death.