It’s funny how the misery disappears under yet another veil of scars. You finger the contours of your stomach, imagining clutching lumps of rind – you – a pork statue, unhung in your own stench filled abattoir at dusk. The eclipse falls bright on your hemisphere, a cloth dappling moth-light and no-light and then there’s more light but it dims and fizzles and shimmers and quivers again and you fall back into fantasies of the macabre but what if that’s not it? What if that’s not really the end at all and you’re just some infinitesmal simpering sperm-dream trapped inside a simulation and dying would just reboot you, just start this whole damnable programme yet again? Yes, you’re stuck in here. There is no enlightenment only shame only fucking only infection only pain, of all kinds, back, calves, neck, temple, gut – there are wrought iron butterflies wrestling in your gut now – feel them – feel them contort and writhe like pythons in your acid. Your dreams scar you, leave your mind splayed with raw contusions every morning as you hobble back to the bottle – or to the screen – or to have a fiddle with yourself and cry silver tears all over your thighs and you want to transcend but you’re so feeble! So impotent! Where is the mercy! Where is the love in this cold shell!