A soft spot for superstition, which is real, which exists as a genuine tenderness in the skin above my navel.

Even when it's good he doesn't know that I get so scared around him that my legs shake in tremours similar to the phases of the moon.

Stressed enough for heat to be caught in the posterior lymph nodes just behind my earlobes, for sleep to reside in my neck.

I once described my breaking to be at the end of each of my limited extremities, but also an infinite, invisible one too.

You might notice a theme later on a theme of my legs doing the walking, and so are the immigrant's organ, but my finger, pointed and faithful like Mina's in Le Bleu de Caftan, is the one doing the guiding.

And so in similar faith (or do I mean similiar vein?) is the dowsing rod of the body. I once described the pain as a distant but guiding star.