The city is an overripe fruit, which has begun to stink.The fly's attracted to the pulpy flesh, exposed through sores in it's skin.The seed inside is sterile and even then it could not but prove to bring more of its own malformed kind.Plucked or picked, it's sticky sweat will cling to fingers to degrees which washing won't remove the sickly succulent scent. (Each sentence, too, is sickly succulent and sticky.)The juices reek with a stench unlike baking cakes or pastries, and more like the vile bile of rejected vittles, gathered in a puddle in the heat of noon in summer.Thinking now a time to exit, you are resisted at the door, and the time you thought for taking no longer makes its presentation.Lingering and lumbering, the floor is coming at you, but that's a matter of perception and is relative to the observer, which is you, or, at least, I think. But the fruit, it goes on emanating a fog of dank and dangerously uninvited, unnoticeable effects.
thewonderofthesituationcannotbeexplainedinnotionscientificorotherwisepictoralyrepresented
The fever rises slowly, it does not lend itself to notice. That's why every one unexpectedly turns out to be bogus, or focused on fucked up fake day-to-day dealings, not paying attention to spiders or cabbages or apes, robots or men.Forget the facts for a minute, and tell me how you feel.For me things have been unreal at times, these things I'm touching not actually existing in exactly the way I see them, though reason says a chair is just a chair, and it's just the keys that are clicking, not the sparks in the synapses or the seconds ticking sickeningly in audio precision. The time has come to stop.
Wow, that was beautiful.
Very evocative. Everything smells like moldy peaches and maggoty meat now.
Quote from: Cuddlefish on January 01, 2012, 05:01:03 AM
The city is an overripe fruit, which has begun to stink.The fly's attracted to the pulpy flesh, exposed through sores in it's skin.The seed inside is sterile and even then it could not but prove to bring more of its own malformed kind.Plucked or picked, it's sticky sweat will cling to fingers to degrees which washing won't remove the sickly succulent scent. (Each sentence, too, is sickly succulent and sticky.)The juices reek with a stench unlike baking cakes or pastries, and more like the vile bile of rejected vittles, gathered in a puddle in the heat of noon in summer.Thinking now a time to exit, you are resisted at the door, and the time you thought for taking no longer makes its presentation.Lingering and lumbering, the floor is coming at you, but that's a matter of perception and is relative to the observer, which is you, or, at least, I think. But the fruit, it goes on emanating a fog of dank and dangerously uninvited, unnoticeable effects.
thewonderofthesituationcannotbeexplainedinnotionscientificorotherwisepictoralyrepresented
The fever rises slowly, it does not lend itself to notice. That's why every one unexpectedly turns out to be bogus, or focused on fucked up fake day-to-day dealings, not paying attention to spiders or cabbages or apes, robots or men.Forget the facts for a minute, and tell me how you feel.For me things have been unreal at times, these things I'm touching not actually existing in exactly the way I see them, though reason says a chair is just a chair, and it's just the keys that are clicking, not the sparks in the synapses or the seconds ticking sickeningly in audio precision. The time has come to stop.
Hi. You don't know me. I got the n00b. I fucking dig that what you wrote. Very distinct movements. Found the rhythm at the end and made me want to read it again with that in mind, so I did, and I fucking dug it even more unpleasant olfactory memory and all.
:mittens: