So hard to be everything right now and so hard not to be, so hard to be a circle of skin and time when outside you there are boots and stars and oranges and shimmering, twisted trees and inside you there is nothing, a void you have taken and mistaken for a soul, holding on in the blazing manyness of morning to the nothing that is the one thing you can't lose, the heart, in fact, of everything whose voice, seductive and terrifying, invites you to surrender the total loss that beats inside you like a heart, the heart that empties and fills with the blood of everything that flows through your body, through the morning, through the trees.