This goes some way to describe the experience of emergent postwarwickshire, which is that terror experience of all comforting states melting down into fleshy paste. When lord leycester hospital melted down into the highstreet and began to flow crimson along myton rd. We bypassed Kenilworth right where the bus seems to flirt with a sojourn across the a46 but never does. We had to this time, for, he’s still walking around even long after we blocked him.
Everything feels like an itch that mirrors premature decay. My hands quiver at any stray fibre or phantom movement, and the flow of my blood frequently resembles a rash. In my mind I was patient 0, which was slightly deviant from my usual pseudocatatonic state, a state achieved much like the man who lay (pretending, as an actor does) to be dead, murdered on silent witness. It’s often the thing to do, to ponder the worseness of the 2 great (unmentionable) crimes. One of them hit us in Warwick, which mangled up the roads to incubate, birthing that molten postwarwickshire milieu. To stop the incessant movement, my muscles like to seize up at any given stimulation, and so, my moments in sleep and in bed become cadaveristic. On the apps and in person, an indolic haze permeates my necessitated clinical appraisals of my body, like the actor on the table. Indole cuts across scents of corpses, coal tar, sterile environments, stagnant water and jasmine grandiflorum from grasse.
A barrier EDP both emits and dispels it.
I thought I heard someone describe me (in run on sentences) as such: saying that there’s nothing less or more brutal, than:
The total sum of his parts, moving, as they do, into myriad escapes- nothing less or more brutal than his languid position and inaction, mostly less or more beautiful than the truth of him set out, flayed for rhythmic analysis, Nothing less or more brutal than the cadaverimage of him, lurking in my space, occupying my second, third mind’s eye. ⅔ gone, unlikely to return. Or a steep hill eventually gotten over.
There may well be a postglasgow mirroring postwarwickshire in the form of the journey along what resembles the grand union canal. Post-glasgow cannot happen to me yet, there’s no melt here. I was hunkered down with my head facing due south- pointing at a more optimal position for my well, (geographically)placed window. I pulled up my knees to protect my fallible insides, I let my muscles breathe (only a bit), I considered the type of sigh and gas emission that cadavers in zone 2 express- until he turned over and gently bit my quaking finger.