There is this heart, it beats in this chest. It doesn’t seem to know any emotion in between. It feels entirely everything or absolutely nothing. It soaks up so much love, joy, anger, sadness, guilt, and grief, that it transforms it all into pain. It overloads, burns out, and breaks down. It explodes then implodes, like a giant sun upon death. It tries to douse the flames in streams of tears – tears that dig deep crevices into the protective wall it has erected over the years. It grows colder and harder each time – soft tissue calloused by the hurt. It recoils in upon itself into superficiality, conventionality, deniability and isolation. There is this heart. It beats in this chest. It pumps the blood that moves through this hand, oxygenating the muscles in the fingers that wrap around this pen – a pen that writes this heart into oblivion.