Ribs form a cage that supports up all that is internal, underneath a diaphragm pulses in steady rhythm, centered round a heart that pushes liquids and red plates and false hopes around my head. It all fell out last night, onto the floor where it rests now, hands still clean in the lack of an attempt to hold it all in. Sickness took up the gap, filled in the void, or vacuum. Now I am all sandpaper, and grit, and green gels. I am pathetic moans, and shivers, Aches, and subtle twitches. If thinking different is all that is required of me, then I must be mad. If my feelings can become malleable changelings, without conviction, or longevity, what then are they worth? What then am I if not ever myself in constant motion... if rather always some one else, forever standing still.