two hundred forty four


And I started to focus, body wrecked by some torturous poison, dripping with sweat on a cold November night, legs buckling and stopping me shifting even a yard while I clutch at bags and vomit. And this focus brings with it gasps for air, whole leaves of spinach plucked from my nasal passage, bile and couscous pouring forth, frothing, and I wished the focus would pass because in this clarity, in this precision, in this ecstasy of pain the only thing I can hear beyond my heartbeat is The Lady waking up and saying “Can’t you do that somewhere else?”

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