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It's barely spoken of, the common need and suffering that's like trying to contain a squirming toad, knowing if you succeed for too long, it will die. The feeling when breathing frosts the windshield of a car and you are driven to write your lover's name and see through it. It's the sensation that questions whether or not we should unearth dead civilizations, perform autopsies, or allow the slack mouths of the dead to be stuffed and sewn. Do we need to live on, everlasting, the wildlife coming up through our bones?
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