the threads in her head

The heart, that pulsating muscle which pumps blood. Sending that precious red liquid of life and vitality to all parts of the body. The source of life, the only machine, the generator, the continuous pump to push those nutrient and oxygen rich fluid out, to all parts of the body.

Diseased waste-filled blood flows back from the body to that bestower, the one which takes the waste gas, replacing it with much-needed oxygen, O2. And it continues pumping, replacing, pumping, replacing. That internal machine so delicate it's protected by cages of raw white bones. Pump pump pump.

How do you stop it from pumping?

If somehow, if somehow, just somwhow, I managed to put the heart into the straightjacket, and tightened it so it will not move, will it cease then? Or will all its innner muscles still seek to suck and push, pull and expel, bit by bit, every small muscle working together to work inside that limited space.

I don't know.

For a straightjacket won't contain the insane yearnings of the heart anyway.