Torture the clay

The tatters of my cherished life feel too tight on my body - bloated by the pitch in my veins, slowing my heart, desaturating and fogging my machinations. I can't let it all go. The wind may fail to dance on my skin but this sack of meat must be made to be the ghost of freedom. I cease the comfort of food. I force the sweat until failure. There is no elation in this effort but the muscles begin to…