tree. Stiff and solid, afraid of the conversation, afraid of the answers I may give. My heart stops, then regains speed, beating hard. Mental coolants terrify me even more. Besides, none exists. I small the odors of my breath.

 

        The creases fade, as that scarlet smell drowns my tones. Copper-lead not fighting a goddamn thing. The tores have worstened. Lithographic prints. Saliva on my fingertips.