Fire

There is nothing else but fire, crawling under the episupradermacoritical layer of my skin, spreading out like a slime mould with determination, at the speed of thought, which depends on the myelin that lets, my thoughts jump from node to node, using ligaments and muscles that, though I posess them, and have lived with them all my life, I cannot remember nor understand, though the fluid of the blastocoel, that still remains as a remnant in my body, peppered with the dying remnants of apoptosing cells, and transit-amplifying cells ready to divide and replace, the parts of myself, left once unnamed, now categorised and delineated, geneologies drawn out, my very being described, named, known.

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