Body as liminal space. My wet and squishy soul waiting in chambers of blood to ascend to permanence. I am waiting. I am Waiting with a capital W. My shell expands and my soul exhales, but still there is not enough room in here. Behind me always, a crimson demon hiding in my dust as I burst through emptiness.

I wedge sentences into paragraphs like door stops. What do I really want to say? I mean to say that frostbite is the only answer to a love that wanders far afield, and that terror is a terrific thing to keep in your backpocket. The cold settles onto the land like a squatter in a fever dream. Ghosts clamor at the edges, longing to steal the living for their games.