It’s starting. I can feel like heels sticking: no way for me to tap them home. My stomach is empty, but I can feel it expanding. I hate bloating. Ugh, I can’t swallow. I can’t even open my mouth. My lips are sticking! I can’t split them with my tongue. I just keep pushing, and I can feel the dryness of my taste buds scrape my bottom lip- Ah, I got it! No… my tongue just pushed through the top of my chin like 3-hour old bubblegum.
My eye just popped! I can’t see out of my right eye! I can’t see! I just felt my left eye slide down my cheek! I can’t raise my arms anymore! My fingers are stuck together like duck’s webbing. I can feel the change in elevation as my body sinks to the floor.
Buried beneath a boneyard of battered tombstones lies hordes of insomniacs that clatter through their stretched coracles. Open eyes and empty mouths remain ingrained to their one-manned vessel while they should be traveling the tributary to hereafter, but inhumane mock mourners fancied Charon’s obol too overpriced to inhume.
I can still hear the hum of hamstrung hopefuls: murmurs of eager souls. Restlessness resumes even after a formal curtain call if relatives leave residue from roguish relationships unresolved: irresolution to vocalize merciful verbiage in a favorable vein. Oblivious people speak a hostile vernacular comparable to Narcissus himself, at least until their retributive day.