there was a sound fading in. each defence layer toppled down one by one, disarrayed with each knock as sharp as a glass puncture. the sound stabbing the air like a silver clawed faucet. i backed off, i locked myself in a room surrounded by rust and dust. the sound kept knocking on the iron wall; the wall now no longer smooth-skinned, the wall now flawed and veined with untidy bulges that swelled like an ocean tide. but i knew i would not be going anywhere, i had my head immersed between my lifted thighs, my legs folded, my arms curled. i fingered my legs, further down until i touched my feet. the back of them had a funny sore that felt like a bolted heat, as if they had just treaded on a hot stone. i scratched my feet, first few seconds, and then one minute, and then five minutes, and i did not stop. i scratched until my skin peeled off. and then after that: nothing. i scratched until i could not feel anything, i dug until nothing was left, but i kept on scratching. somebody inside of me, somebody whom i often bow my head to, somebody named shame finally said stop. so i listened and stopped, but the nothingness still lingered, i could not feel the sore, i could not feel the tingle, i could not tell if my feet were still there. but of course they were, albeit no longer the same. this was when every part of my body, including my feet, felt like a manifestation of my heart, the projection of the idea of love that we had long wondered about. a space in which we so often get lost, a futile device. we dig until we get lost, and we try to dig back home sore-handed, empty-headed, only to to throw ourselves into the nothingness again.