Black lung. Black life. The black hole stuck inside my half-black, heavy heart. As if these stupid words might play some part in status quos, in sleeper holds, in middle passage or tobacco roads. Just like four-hundred years of loaded guns might somehow be undone by singing songs like they were bricks when we’re, we’re trading lives for loose cigarettes, and blackened eyes, and blackened lungs, and free TVs, and capsicum clouds. And if there is a god, well, she don’t care at all if we, we sing the songs, we throw the bricks. We’re trying to breathe but we’re choking on words like pig. And I’m just trying, I’m trying to breathe again. It changes nothing but I...I guess I need to pretend. And I’m just trying, I’m trying to breathe again. It changes nothing but sometimes it helps to pretend.