You see I need to find a way through the cold dark night. You see coffee might not do it, and plus I don’t have any coffee. Pot would make me sleepy. The skin that slides greasily over the knuckles is truly a gentle flap. Chicken leg skin fried flap, like pulling that skin off. You get some grease under the tip of your nose. And yet I tell you my eyes are so heavy, wet leaves that they are, teared. It was like the overwhelming taste of my tongue, if I had one, I’d feed into the slender tendons I snap back from the fat of my finger. You see the cold dark night needs to find a way through me. No wait, it’s its jimmy on the spot. It don’t need me. Need me for nothing. (As the finger snaps finally the teeth clumsily rush together and chip, we don’t know which ones) I don’t know which tooth just snapped. One of my mother’s teeth, wisdom no longer used. I will chew through the cold dark night. I have the cold dark night, you see it, here, upon my fingertip. The one for the wring. I can chew my way through the cold dark night, and yes, that’s how I will do it. I’ll do it for myself, I am so tired. I’m coughing up blood, but no, it came in from the outside, no it’s mine, but not from, my. This is. Not. This is a dog’s leg.
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