Anger. Especially my own is hard for me to quantify. I cannot claim to have none, to know nothing of what it is to rage and bridle, but my anger my volumes, for I am sure what is and has been is vast, my volumes disappear acquire ambiguity of chimera-proportions, until they are not recognizable, within a flash of coming to exist. Sand through a sly and gaping sieve. All pours inward, and if it comes back out it wears a different face or has been given only my name my flesh my imperfections to rattle and scrape against. Utterly mutable. Driven out of its proper channels it has gone underground chosen the only paths open to it. Like King Hagar’s unicorns, with the Red Bull, stalwart, stamping behind, fleeing into the waves, for lack of any other open avenues. So goes my anger, a flood of sharp hooves with a beast behind, roaring down the only paths left when all else was labeled unsuitable. A flood into, some diving deep beneath the surface dormant and malignant, some wracking the body rebranded into terror without a face or naming themselves rightly but choosing a target whose flesh they owned. I don’t generally think of it so, as a desecration, but many would use the word and it has a ring to it so I will not deny desecration, I have wreaked, upon my self, in a million tangible and intangible ways. It is a sin to lash out at another in the twilight zone of my brain there is no time when it can be rightful or just. But I am fair game. I will never lift hand or voice against another but I will grieve and grieve in rage until… I do not know. Until I give out, having long ago given in. Until I live twice my present span of years but disease I could have forestalled as I had foreknowledge and the means at my disposal to stop it’s creeping takes me. Maybe the number held at the back of my brain will turn out to be prescient not just trauma. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe I will turn and face my herding shadows and storm forth onto a bright shore. Maybe Yes. Maybe No. Both are fair game.