creaking raze a hair from my head has wormed its way into my most problematic ear, and the sound it makes when i jostle my jaw or think about regular season basketball games or sink into a squat is the same sound an old door makes when it's pried open after having lived too long without even a sympathetic shadow to hear a thing it has to say. and so, everywhere i go, i carry with me the inarticulate voice of a movable structure that's lost its sense of wonder, at least until cerumen separates apostate protein from the cavern that's claimed it, or my senses abandon me as part of some cruel cosmic joke. come and knock on my skull. i've been waiting for you. 251227 what's it to you? who go blather from