Brittle voices between the real and the words like greaseproof paper that’s caught at the edges. Shivers across the hills and in the city restless breaths that snag on a story that will never be yours. The wind’s piling high, sighing in the gaps, bruising. We can’t all go back. There’s a limit to how fast your feet can go prickling like heat underneath fingernails, the bottom of your heart is wide open, sinking, spent.