it’s bad for the lungs to drink the black air. in the walls of the lungs sits soot. all night long my body aches. there’s so much of it, this night. i carry it out, i bring it in, and then i forget, and then it’s morning. even in the lungs the morning switches on. i look around (my habit is back) to see if anything’s gone missing in the night. nothing but a few pages torn out of an extravagant book. and intricately inscribed above the restless conclusion: the morning sun. as if that night without a nose will never come.