I suppose I should have caught warning, the banshees singing to me should have been enough. They knew you better than I it would appear, which disgusts me it took three years to reach my ears, only taken in like the slow drip of morphine. Or
maybe it was more like the shrieks of helpless swine herded into the pig plant, the way the tires tongued the pavement. The way their tongues persuaded you. The trail of saliva shadows your past; ebony brushstrokes, but
not quiet charcoal. Like the pint I had forced down my throat a week prior. Lying in the hospital bed warmed by the hollow embrace of death, or whiskey, or both. It wriggled through my esophagus, escaping the ensnaring confines of the cocoon. Ribbed with flesh,
the ceiling, walls, and floor. Encroach. Displacing my weakened stomach, from toe to toe, across the crevice ridden glacier most would call a spine. I'm jarred awake to experience the black sludge again. Before I can **** I'm in another white room. I should have known something was wrong,
the impact of the hit obliterated any sense of structure. I saw a glimpse of my reflection, passing across three dimensions. Only the hole outlined from your cigarette reminds me you were ever there. We were
a great catastrophe. As a confidant voice disrupts, "Is that everything?" The blue pen dwindling in hand. "I suppose. I won't fall for another pig in a poke." The hour ends, and so does our session.