tap raze an unmarked glass container, empty, given life with sharp, deliberate breaths blown into the gather. elastic skin inflated and hewed into something familiar and inert enough not to impose any taste of its own onto what it holds. the braille of the punt makes rough magic against your fingertips. you press the aperture to your lips, smooth tendons of continuous thread forming a road that leads to the vermillion border, and you fill the cylinder with all that you are. it looks like root beer. 211213 what's it to you? who go blather from