it was a thick year and without retreat i'd felt the mass of the earth pushing up thru the soles of my shoes like a living thing breathing and there were moments like drugs but without drugs when i couldn't tell if something was wet or just cold and the world exploded into pure concept and atoms just bits to pick and choose i'd been burnt by optimism and was whole with poison and now all the killer last lines were lined up like cigarettes in a fresh pack ordered and waiting to paint my breath