And this body intends to be nowhere else but here, sitting on this chair; the one with the legs made of saliva.
The object of this physique is to establish whether or not the seat, supported on its spittle-limbs, is in fact a chair or not.
These bulky bones make an impression on this chintz cushion that is stuffed with teeth-torn nails; jagged and ripped half-moons.
The air is thick with terror. It passes through the investigative figure’s shaking lungs and re-emerges as a shared joke.
Tears the size of lagoons drop to the carpet which, is no longer a nylon weave but has become instead a shaved scalp.
The formless form places a cracked glass to its thirst, what was once clear, cool water is now strands of hair. It chokes.
Fingerprints litter the floor and on the bed a greasy pillowcase shows where a phantom head shifts uneasily from side to side all night.
Sleep is impossible until the conundrum is solved. The weight of an insomniac is equal to that of a 50 litre barrel of blood.
It tosses, scratches, rubs. Flecks of irritation permanently mess that corner. But it is not known why this phenomenon occurs.
Neither is it understood who or what dirties these clothes; shit-stained underwear skid-marked with itches.
Off-white sweat patches mapped into armpits. Mucous seepage everywhere.
A climate of effluvia everywhere.