I already have a heart of pain!

 I already have a heart of pain! From the crack of pain. And nothing, nothing. In the blood of the heart. Boatman love. Navigator of the moment. From hands to hands lighthouses ports. They come worn and broken sails, yellowed with salt and sea, ordinary. Worn chains of moldy anchors, sea bottom tincture. They come from serving long sentences in salty virulent deserts, lashed by immense chains.

Sense, then ex-isto as a hypo/thesis.