I dream endlessly dark miner’s dreams. I nibble at the black with the tooth of my chisel. Finding the odd root of pyrite. The paper-thin limbs of nickel that gleam when I open my mouth to admit a warm, faint glow. My spit behind me, spotting the long tunnel and slowly receding like slugs blushing with light. I know that this digging is a species of desperation. Digging into a black amid the black, direction only a kind of pressure. I breathe as much dirt as air, the filth lining my nose and throat, making numerous caves out of the capillaries of my lungs. I will swallow this night and find myself digging inside of myself. Emerging one day from my own mouth.