Leaves fall as I bury my chin into my coat. In the harsh breeze, a dead god speaks to me about things I haven’t thought of since I was a kid. The streets branch out like the blood vessels in my cheek. The kiss of the wind immense—a gunshot wound taking out my tongue and several teeth. The god doesn’t have a name, nor a face. When I was younger, he lived in the radiator, and every morning as I sat before it warming my bones, he would whisper to me in secret. The whispers themselves were secrets. Secrets about how best to bridge the gap between the head and the heart. Only, the older I get, the more I forget what exactly was said. Now, I’m floating around in the early hours like a lonely crisp packet, neither here nor there. Somewhere, but not anywhere I know. Sticking my hands deep into my pockets, I huff and puff. It gets me nowhere, but I do it all the same. The stillness calms my nerves, yet what I’d give for a little release like those radiator whispering days when my fate was so far away.