If the fascia can be a shell, a kind of wet suit, a suit of armour for all occasions, the work to be here, simply the work of arrival into the present, is a deep tissue affair, is marked at the surface beneath - not above - the skin. A daily press, compress from which you travel accordingly from the specific geologic strata of your history. The way it has sedimented you over time as grit or sandstone or slake. You are not bound to this state, but some journeys of arrival take more breath and more time than others, require a sound that will crush upwards and traverse your flesh, coax your fascia back from marble, persuade it to live once again as oil, moving so that you can move. Your task: house this fuel with the pores of your skin open, pretending nobody will take it from you as they have done again and again and again. You are not impossible. You are simply singing at the edge of imagination.