Arising, like a lick of flame bubbling, rushing, sweeping. Quiet. Pulsations from the chest, the rise and fall of passing cars the mosquito irritation of a moto. tick tick pulse pulse Gently, quietly, with real curiosity the tentacles softly approach who feels who hears the traffic and the clock? Ahh, the gentle smile runs like a delicate stream to the tips of fingers and toes. Fear sets its construction in place and still I breathe, air rasping in my throat.