Notebook 008

I am the clenched fist against a morning blur.
I can see the palm lines in myself, deep and folded.
I heed the discolouration from pressure.
I can hear the warmth spread.
I smell the snapping sound of tendons pressing.
I feel naught.
I feel void.
I sense and understand, the lack of what there isn't.
I sense and understand, the lack of what isn't there.
I sense and understand, the lack of what there, isn't.