After a day spent doing nothing, a run through the shivering dark. Under halogen light, the last of the leaves appear like pointillistic dots on the sculptural tree branches. Chapped lips begin to hurt. Later, lines of ichor will appear in front of the mirror as aftershave is daubed over them. Heart rarely believes in its dumb luck anymore. Why should it anyway? The self is to be blamed for the heart is nothing more than an animal, even if it is sometimes a strange species to others, and to itself. It should live in paintings, and not in these real landscapes with changing weathers. Must teach the self to give it away, again piece by piece. It is better to live among a ruin of a ribcage than with it, hooting and whistling and bubbling, another Chernobyl waiting to happen.