Once I was a channel. From ether through the wrist - or sometimes straight to tongue - words, a sudden rush. I packaged up my work and felt alive, full, like a moon. And now I sit and watch the eyelid show. Orange, moving slowly into brown. Then curtains up to tapered, mani’d nails, tick — tick — ticking on the counter, where I separate the yolks from the whites, and beat them into something I can stomach.