The runaway heart, a freight train at 200 beats per minute, two and a half continuous hours and it’s time to stop the heart…. stop the heart? Emergency room ghouls stop your heart, three seconds, you are not dead, but something is pulled from the bottom of the soles of your feet and slammed to the underside of your cranial dome and flattened there, tight, solid, crushing, a grey-black moment of an eternity of compression. But the life-flood isn’t let out, it reconstitutes back through the veins, begins to fill back into the limbs until your petty conscious focus returns. The heart, –traitorous beast that it is– returns to a semblance of normal. Sulk-ishly resisting suggestion, but for the moment, a panting, uncertain panic of a moment, the heart releases it’s strangulation hold. Then it sits defiant and petulant in the chest, satisfied in it’s efforts for attention, having exhausted and fried the wiring of its shabby vessel. The heart, nothing but a shill for the subconscious ring master, circus huckster, invisible, immutable Loki trickster. The holographic reflections of the universe will demand their moments…because mere moments are all infinity can claim.