knuckles cut up and bruised. swollen. knocked back to the wrist. and maggots all over my feet. you know. maggoty maggots maggoting around. writhing. sucking. they're foul. they make my skin crawl. and if i put my finger in front of them, if i wave it front of them, they follow it. they follow the flesh. i fucking hate maggots. just sit there thinking if i held it by its tail end it would bend and contort and there would be nothing i could do. couldn't break its spine. it doesn't have one. couldn't drop it because then who knows what would happen.

what am i talking about. i guess i'm looking for something here. a rhythm. i haven't really got bruised knuckles. there are no maggots. i'm not hallucinating. not yet. but i picture things like that all the time. i picture things. i might be in a conversation, and i picture something, and i want the conversation to end so i can look at this picture in my head and what's going on and who's involved, but the conversation never stops. because people like to talk. people like the sound of their own bleating. if only they would only shut the fuck up, i could look at the picture.