I needed to clean out my head, so I began to write. The pen was my scalpel and I was surgical, cutting out chunks of me that had gone sour, black as frostbitten toes. Somehow, being less than who had I had been meant there was more of me living above ground. I could see light and stars and smell the incense that now hung over my horizon. My eyes burned a bit but that was welcome. Life is better when you can see it coming at you, that's what I am figuring out.