She closes her eyes, but it doesn't help. There is no shutting the inside out. Like the stone that hides inside of stone or the water hidden with-in so much water, she slides inside the swarms of teeth and needles, sealing the deal. All the dreams of care-free flesh, all the days of work and plunder, drowning inside the whole of her indifference, smothering inside this undue certitude. She closes her eyes, but he is still there.
He closes his hand, but it won't help. There is no amount of beating that will win the day. These battles of imagined deities, this eternal war for these smug souls that plays out between every line. The conceit that all this fighting needs a reason, that the fist answers anything other than the measure of force applied, that this violence has a cause outside the snake-pit of his mind. He struggles to explain, knuckles split and bleeding.
There is smoke. There is the clink of empty glass. There are bricks and there are boards, all the conspiracies of greed and commerce gathered in lines and stacks. There is a roof above, a floor below, and a sea of opposition all around. They spoke words together, before assembled witnesses. They spoke out of turn, the world knowing so much more about them than they ever could. They toil together, tangled in their struggle. That noisy oath that echos through their rooms and hallways, that promised parting come death.