The epicentre today is a little, just a little, to the left of the middle, lengthwise and breadthwise, of the afflicted chest. Ordinarily, it is a faint throb or a muffled ache which is reminding of the static of radios as radios once were, with dials and needles searching for their soul along a purgatory of discord and then the notes breaking through hesitantly and, then euphony. The ache would be endurable, ignorable even, if it did not weigh so much at times. As if all the despair and hope of being was gathered together into a bullet and then shot through into flesh, ribs and heart and lies embedded there in a wait counted in eternities and infinities. Until, once every couple of ages and eons, a faint tap of footsteps is heard, treading forward in inches somewhere near, approaching. Then the static raises its tempo beginning anew a crackle, both terrifying and mesmerising, seeking either freedom or effacement. It would have been such redemption if a note or melody or even a call could be heard in that noise, and some do for a fortunate while, but today, in that epicentre, the ache is so clear that every curve and contour and depth can be felt, seen and sensed—so clearly defined because it is so clearly futile.