There is a split in the middle of my head; it runs clean down to the spine. A fragmentation of the soul, i think. Like the river Moses(pbuh) parted except my splitting is neither prophetic in nature nor temporary. It is entirely home grown and rasied, wholly organic, right down to the golden scythe and the silken ribbons. But there exists a fundamental flaw in this fault line: it grows wider, never deeper. It itches, a slow crawling itch that wriggles along the edges of my skull and burrows into the soft folds of my brain. It exists because the split refuses to sink, because it has not yet dipped into the synaptic broth, because it will not offer proof of its own existence. I have, in fervent upsurge tried to force it further with whatever lay at hand. If you strike the center of your head just right, the chances of it cratering are very plausible. But i was born under a waxing moon, a creature of partial light and so everything i attempt at totality is only ever an attempt. All i earn from it is a lethal headache and copious, bungling shame. So I drown the noise in a brew of coffee and cinnamon, a blend strong enough to kickstart a calcified heart but, as I said, I was born under a waxing moon, and what I get instead are ectopic beats and the occasional refraction in hindsight.