semaphore raze this machine moans. makes a mockery of my hapless hunt for silence. but there's music in the maelstrom. listen: when the arm that holds the next letter i hope to harness strikes the page with its ink-soaked fist, it isn't paper it's punching. it's the skin of a snare drum tuned low enough to shake like the side of a shed being struck by a plank of wet wood. i can't show you the beige skin my brain is bathing in. nor can i semaphore the scent that seeps from worn felt the same way an old spell leaves my lips when i'm breathing fire to warm my weary frame. i can only hope the smoke you see when the book i've abandoned is set ablaze will make you think of me. 260106 what's it to you? who go blather from