How many mountains do you think you could fit inside your lungs? Skin tight, your edges pressed against by altitude and all those trees you don’t know the names of. When that feeling gets too heavy maybe you can try carrying me instead.From this height there are stretch marks on the Atlantic, and tiny ships that look like stitches, not really holding much together except men because there is little reassuring about deep water. Doesn’t it bother you, that there are likely to be pieces of yourself in places that you’ll never see, never set foot in? Colours run here and they say it’s possible to catch them—I know this to be true because I’ve seen some of them in your eyes. Put them back with paint and felt tip pen, careful not to go outside of the edges of this country, that country, their country; they aren’t going to know the back or the front of your hands.