My body is not a cage. It is a decrepit wrench that doesn't align with itself to work correctly but still a cheaper alternative than a new one. It is a time bomb, sweating with anticipation, lacking innards of gears and cogs, using imaginary incogitant wires to connect the buttons to the switch. Don't worry, it's probably not the blue one.
If anything it is the key, waiting under a bed, making friends with dust bunnies, and using a tricolon. It can dance, but it chooses not to. My body is a dramatic pause before something terrible that you expect to happen does. My body is a literary device.
My body is tired.
