Popsicle Sticks And Merry-Go-Rounds
The red wine flows like rivlets through a sour vein of matriculated mash. I smelt the beings into an armour of drainage and attempt a leap. I fall on my hands and knees, scraping the skin from my bone mask, and arching the pain of life to my cerebral cortex. I shudder. I laugh.
The moments of my unmasking are like droplets from a leaky drain into a porcelain sink. They can go on forever, but some mass of something has clogged their natural descent train, and now they spill over the counter, onto the floor, warping the wood as they settle and fester to rot.
I can not afford to leave the mop unattended.
SJM
July 28th, 2018