Having posted the earlier draft, I now feel obliged to post the next - hope for your sakes that's all there is! But it probably isn't. Best A sometimes pain seems to be the truest thing there is it sits behind your eyes like a shivering animal whose vision is a foil wretched with reflections even skins are razors luminous with unshed blood and you understand anew the fragility of touch how real and clumsy it is a derailed train in which corpses leak beneath shuddering metal and collide discourteously as the worm wakes in the brainpan sniffing the stench of tears - pain is excess of course and thus shrugged and deadened - there is no time for its midnight pollen drifting through your veins rooting and flowering into hallucinatory lymphomata for shuttered lids and tongues tasting of iron for the impotence of a half formed gesture which gutters out and leaves a trail of rust inside the stilled hand for the clarities which ripple in its silence