Thousands of Kilometers of Fibre
Wires, this time electrical and optical, a spiderweb of telecommunications, coil about me. Silent, bounding, writhing, twisting, like my innards at the sight of a simple photograph. The absence of skin wears down on my soul, feeling raw and open, muscles exposed to dry air. Bitch, moan, whine. Like a monotonous reading of the Raven, speaking of madness and angst.
My mouth an exhaust pipe spewing sewage. Strange how through a filter, it becomes sharp and poignant, like a sword honed to a fine edge that could slice a moment in half. Beauty from shit.