sinuses ovenbird Uncanny. Unholy. Trigger for trypophobia. I hate to think of them, a warren behind my eyes, so many sinkholes, wells clogged with sludge and debris. Now they are inflamed, driving spiles into my skull, letting all that sap drip down the back of my throat tasting like a tooth gone bad. I should irrigate them later. Flood them with saline and plunge the blockages until everything runs clear. But I worry about the rabbits, their burrows lined with fur and grass. If I flush them into the open they’ll be hunted. I can feel the hounds straining at their leads. Would I sacrifice the innocents for a chance to breathe? I wouldn’t. So I open my mouth and heave air down my throat and let my lungs sort out the mess. 261002 what's it to you? who go blather from