The same song breathes again, in through the nose and out through the mouth with every bruise-raising kick on the bag.
Or, I oddly long to feel that, but not now. Lately, it’s the bag, the sweat, all new, somehow. Fresh, coming in from somewhere keen and blazing. An unshakable indifference to all familiar and stale stimuli whose edges have been blunted and sanded smooth, except the…
Whap, shuffle, whap, whap, umph.
My arms, my time, my life, more.