I wonder how the comic strips held captive inside my brain are made to abate from the inside space, starved of colour: halt. Spot the difference; hold a lung full of empty space bursting with all the missing oxygen. Absence, a writhing exhale, collapsed sentence and concept, depletion of rich developments as tangible and quantifiable as any object. Ribs turned out with indignation, words I will never say. With these moments, the days that you will never seize, the children you birthed depleted and wounded dormant remain still, revives of your soul remain fragmented collapsible in notches, small bodies.