A pounding initiates inside the layers of my flesh.

It moves like the feeling of the bass that accompanies that lyrical-catastrophe.

My feelers tap on wood.

My headlights become unfocused.

My face-portal slaps down and curls at the ends.

There it goes again.

The bass.

‘write about love.’

‘write about death.’

‘write about something that makes you happy.’

Behold this immense stumbling block.

Some may say it is an advantage.

Almost like the man who makes your intestines flutter asking you; ‘who do you love?’

‘You.’