He awoke in a dark mixture of pressures, textures and temperatures and light which his mind went on to describe as a cold puddle of water on a clear starry night in a forest. Right quick he felt a pain in his side, and sat up feeling positively refreshed. The wind blew and branches creaked in their most typical way, or as such as it seemed to represent the secret of. Not really interested in secrets, he farted, which effected a weak yet poignant bubble from the puddle, and then he stood up. I mean, what else could someone expect him to do? He stumbled from the puddle along the direction of the creek he had formerly been following, and immediately stepped into a deeper pool, very cold, his pants soaked, he stood there under the menacing squirt of the moon and wet his pants. I mean, they were already wet. It didn’t feel very good, except the warmth swirling into the cold water, it felt more like gas than liquid. He wondered if a god would feel that way at the moment of creation, a sexual and creatively zoned warmth spewing out into the cold dark nothing. He coughed and tasted blood, took a few steps from the pool and collapsed on the bank. All was black again.
Communication; He was speaking to someone but the only way to do it was to write what he was saying in a bowl of soup. A bowl of warm soup, which would hold the trace of his words for a vegetable broth moment, and stubbornly coalesce back into its hearty chunk mélange of flat gravity-directed lack of communication. Slurping noise occasionally, the other yelling I don’t understand I don’t get what you’re saying you’re not making any sense, and he was trying- his finger was covered in healthy sticky nutrition he was fucking starving his finger was the tongue the soup the air he shaped in the bowl of his mouth and then bright fucking light and cold fucking wind.
He awoke. The soup had been orange with carrots and tomatoes and onions and curry. He was very hungry. It was very bright out, early morning, birds here and there doing their chops, cold mid fall beauty reigned around him. The brook even burbled hello. He sat up, he was only wearing jeans now, the scab in his side was painful but there would be no infection. He was already infected and the bacteria-like festering his own cells had created into the body of him jealously guarded their host and dinner, would let none other pass, no scraps for hangers on, etcetera.
He stood, stripped, washed himself in the brook, cleaning the shit out of his jean pants, the dried brown stains off his buttocks, the mud from his hair. From dust to dust only happens in deserts he thought. Everywhere else it’s mud to mud. In a sudden burst of desire for a bit more symmetry, he bit off his right pinky finger and spit it onto the bank. The bone was tougher than he thought, he chipped his tooth on it, had to gnaw on it for a moment. The blood tasted good in his mouth, salty juice it was, he sucked on the finger for a while, and then, like I said, he spit it on the bank. Some happy raven for that one mused him. Donning his wet jeans and only casually noticing the sharp pain of pulled pubic hair as he zipped them up, he continued his trek- what seemed northerly along the creek brook stream etcetera.
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