They’d always out in the end – or so it was claimed – of their own accord. Then why did he vividly recall gouging at the wrinkled pad of his index with a brutal pin picked from the sewing-box?
Strange how the years go by how less and less the need arises to plough flesh after some buried speck. Always black as a thorn whatever the source. Driving a fork through clay, he’d hook it finally with a braced pin
there
it would spring loose. Confess itself. Cleansed, he’d return both hands to the given task.