My focus is sharper than the razor blade. Nothing else matters. I make my way up my arm, each stroke one of pure, potent life. For one moment and then a hundred, I can barely breathe with the rawness of this edge I’ve found, a barely perceptible line between reality and illusion, between life and death, pain and bliss. I hold onto it, feeling my way along, tiptoeing along the tightrope toward some ending I can’t see and that doesn’t matter.
