In my black bathroom steamy w/ kitcheny goodness, I stare w/ dumbfound familiarity at my underwater prunes of procreation. Then turn my attention to a dead moth, whose variegation, colourations bladdayah yap pap ring a bell of shells: precious wentletraps, mitre & helmet shells, argonauts' earphones. Rashspaced tiger cowrie's spots misnomered. Conch's cremedge. There's more dead moths on the shelves & stickybackvinyled floor, on the bathrim, a crisper of dead moths like an embarrassment of dead parrots on oblongchested shoulder of stolid, plastiplated whitish cistern. Even a dead moth atop the 47cm short, spitifullooking inletpipe, ersatz chodbintestine to the sea. Dead moths phantasmamothically festoon my black bathroom. I'm dehydrated, but still alter bathwater, ammoniac infinipissimal. Twisted bathwater I'll layer lemon 'n' lime as I'm also unstoppably snotty, a viro-Vesuvius of snoutslime. But when you're ****** & deadmothy, you're always coming down w/ the lurgee & the times. The English subsist on blackpudding & limes.