What I have found here does not belong to someone else. I cannot see it, yet I can smell it inside my head. There is no air passing through me, it is as if it came from underground, beyond a ground I remember but which is not here.

A hole I dug and then covered with a strength I never thought I had, a strength I probably didn’t once have.
And the more I focus, the more an ache makes its way between my throat and sternum, listening in figureless memories to a shovel that sticks into the earth like a dagger into myself. A dagger that I drive into the ground, shaking and turning every part of me to hide a sweet memory deeper than the roots.

It is a road I have closed, this one, a dead-end alley, and I have no choice but to turn back.