Finding time is a carving knife: hack deep and away at meat corners. Pull delicate skin from fat and cut. Five trim minutes here. Eighteen minutes there. One straight thinking hour is ripping up, close to bone. Into cavernous ribs. Snap them apart one by one or all at once, long curved keys flying off a broke piano. One that is wrong or refuses sound. Crack down anyway, you try and try your slippery tries to grasp odd calcified shapes. They aren't good; at times awful: thick buried noises, rambling trauma. Fling them to walls, heaped membrane and mess.
There was one uncomfortable instant between gluttony and pride when I just did it. Struck straight down into muscle and tore something out. Twisted my brain into the cage, the inhale crushing, and wrote up. It beat beat beat, weak thing bled beet red.
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