the days are long and our fingers curl and crack by affiliation under the winter sun. endless winds set upon our shoulders and we struggle to shield our eyes as flesh tears at the knuckles setting to fresh topography. fleshy continental divides whose newly formed oceans of blood instantly freeze over in each moment spared of exacerbation.

forward momentum offers up little assurance of eventual alleviation, no promise of home and respite, no peace for bound hands seething one hundred million years of epidermal tectonic shift every minute.

we try not to think about our toes.