Got a heartbeat produced by god and boy it sound hard.

There are little men in my lungs, tiny construction workers in filthy work clothes and stained hardhats with flickering headlamps, skin soiled black from the smoke that surrounds them as they tirelessly haul carbon monoxide up and out, buckets passing from hand to hand like a fire brigade, the gas billowing from my mouth and nostrils in great gouts, like God leading the Jews through the desert; they're like the ones in my head, frantically digging that hidden language out of my brain, spattered with gore and tissue, heavily gloved hands pulling back folds of membrane for bright veins of occluded information, ripe and ready to burst, like sea creatures brought up from the deepest of trenches.

Don't ask me how to keep carbon monoxide in a bucket. Have some faith, man; it just happens.

I just hope they don't form a union, or ask for a raise. Every time I sneeze, I make another wife a widow, and those benefit packages are costly.