Hungry and grunting, at sea on a mattress. The room grows larger and my field of vision retreats. I know where everything is around me: The lump in my side. Heart rolled in a corner. Bulbs like torches. The filth between the shelves; an orderly infestation.
Underneath the blood's boiling, a mystery of possibilities to pick apart and call separate.
I sit still in my slowly turning universe. Boxes sprout like mushrooms, spilling their contents and I squash them underfoot. Inside's out. And when I leave, it's still there -- a hairy shroud, discarded angel wings used for nothing. Plastic lives that will seep down to some microscopic level but never completely disappear. Vermin eyes glow like lights from the city in the distance as I row. Trying to see my way without looking forward.
New and improved, and basically the same: A blob of reflexes, an illusion of progress.
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