Self talk need not be audible. Husks definitively damaged in continuance of heat. Without full consciousness, intuition wanders into something right. Leads away with hammock from high points and valleys. How trombone becomes half glib as a reed instrument with hingey little keys and minus the encumbrance of a half soaked reed about the split unevenly.
Lips can compensate without full intervention of a mind.
One note after the next. Change is percussory, primped on its alabaster dias, a vein to Lifes' vestiges which tilt obsolence to defeat. Flashes between waking and wanting and knowing and seeing, that cradle is grave. And mother is dying. In rutilant reds, our faith is un-knotting this wretch of existence, rash of desire.