A drop of water ripples the screen; her face flutters: a frozen vision, a melancholy freedom. Praising disloyalty, the freedom of choice, the will to desist.
How accusing is her face when one's heart is unclean, when the civil muck clogs and conglomerates in its percolating ventricles. I stare back and quiver, muttering oaths, my knees shaking uncontrollably, bladder pulsing.
A purging pilgrimage, the flame's orange dance, howling faces, sadistic warpaint. Handles wilting, stripped screws, swamp stained steel, appendages whipped and whittled. Viewed, with cocked eyebrows, by ascetic scrutiny.
She's left the gas on, and abandoned the house. Its creaking heat intensifies, and the cabinets sweat, while she occupies her deaf hole in the sky. So senseless is she, staked aboard in the pitch of night, the ship's glue old and rotting as it decrepitly drifts forward, forward, the past smoking in the distance, away from explosions and treacherous hearts.
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