Drop by drop, blood almost kills itself. Emerges again, both suicidal and invigorated. It searches for the wall, the boundary, the line. The curve of the jaw of life, the part where the teeth settle into a semblance of quietness, of poise and the part where the tongue roams, pure flesh, pure desire, pure urges, pure suffering. Blood becomes foreign to itself, its many parts just hanging, limp, lipid, senseless and insane. Blood screams in the valley of the undiscovered, the unknown, the submerged. How can one possibly express that which cannot be ascertained, that which palpitates in the tongue and the throat and the vein and the leg, that which sings and pukes, that which is both nauseated and devoted, that which never dies but also never lives, that which rises forth along the centre of a blade of grass, that which exclaims absolute joy but also that which only knows how to scream and scream it does until it isn’t life and death duelling, but death and life against death and life.