Eh, a whack-a-mole, a distant relative, or a menagerie of faults contained within one sleeping man, all related but none his confession. Each line intersecting on his face, mixed with energised emotion and centuries old invader-spirit; his nose spits when he exhales.
“He always said it was for seeing.”
And locked in that bone cabinet, dusty and hardened, free of the rotting influence of moisture, is his worst kept secret. A love letter to enemies both real and un-. This force, it rises from it's subconscious keep, after day has crept ashamedly behind night, and jettisons the brain for the hands. They contract and paw. They leave me breathless.
“Is that supposed to be funny?”
“No... just now that it's broken and bleeding out the nostrils, the eyes are too swollen for any good. His nose is for seeing. It's true, is all."