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It seems that most everything can be identified by its pulse. The metallic resonance of rusty wind chimes, the fierce stabs of a headache, the ticks of a clock's second hand, the evenly spaced and sunset-tinged sheets of rain in a summer storm, the red flashes layered over bells at a railroad crossing, the breathing of a sleeping lover, the blinking light across the room that keeps you up at night...
This morning, when I woke up, I checked my pulse.
It's actually funny thinking about it now, as if the confirmation of blood pounding through my veins would ease the deafening lack of value. As if it would create something beautiful out of this drab patterned length of light.