Silhouette’s a map with a style, our team, running with the lamp in the nighttime, feral rats, kings, and queens.

In a brick box, every inch a pyre, higher, tossing tires on the chain of the tiger, I was born.

I’m twice born, once and seven something, once is the resurrection of honorable function, been shoveling a coal as the engine’s doctor long enough to see my silhouette acquire a permanent kink in a posture.