A buddy-cop dramedy starring a bottle of Advil and a headache that won't quit&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;&10;Imagine you&8217;re standing in a room, and someone on the other side of the door won&8217;t stop knocking - ever. Welcome to Andrew Faulkner&8217;s world of the never-ending, low-grade headache, a medical issue resolved only by striking up a committed relationship with the slippery miracle that is Advil. Through direct address, sideways glances, lyrical interludes and deep consideration of what it means to overcome a condition when living is a part of the condition itself, these poems observe the speaker&8217;s world as it crowds around him, coming into sharper and specific focus, from the hard wisdom of saints on suffering and a slightly unhinged Caravaggio on the metaphysics of painting, through to the deep meaning of a hot dog and a thoroughly botched retelling of a Norm Macdonald joke.