Defibrillated love letters, congestedverbiage forcing a deep throated knot of unrequited lovers, vying their way between corners of vocal chords, and pineal glands, hiding behind that dangly thing no one notices until its gone. They say the palatine uvula is useless. Something deemed unnecessary as time has passed us by the way of survival. And yet, my words have made a home back there. I'm sure they'll make themselves known once fight-or-flight has kicked in, deeming these ghosts useless, but my imaginary conversations bouncing back and forth between the throat canal, melodic like, are making it rather difficult to swallow these days.