Today, there is a heat within me that won't engage my well honed skills at falling into sleep, but this cursive, molten, heat traces the simple, familiar route I know only too well. Liquid fire runs about my arms and pools at my shoulders before flushing into my chest only to ring my hips. Black cores, white, orange dust, slow and dripping away from its run, yet follows without venting, this useless brine, this aggressive tide burns its way back around again.