The disruptions and insults to the body. The sensual and the suffering. Why, we have a pill to make the prick hard and the mind soft; their hollow voices, their petty vices, coarse from curses, bated with sarcasm, and I see the pain, the empty meditations of bone and grievous tissue; I make no issue with what they feel, their raving appeals for healing. The fluidity of blood impaired, knotted skin disparaged, the wounds of age gathering, gathering. Can I fix them or must I trick them into thinking they are fine, aging like wine: sometimes bitter, but sometimes magnificent. Do they see the lie in my eyes, or do they continue, blind to the maleficence of time? I heal with a curl of my lips and a softness in my voice. Be well, I chant, be well. And they curdle nonetheless.