==><==
Things, things, things, things, [[things]]
[[You]] are a bunch of things surrounded by more things.
(link: "Did you know?")[When you die you [[shit]] yourself.]
(link: "Did you know?")[When you die you [[piss]] yourself.]
(link: "Did you know?")[There is nothing [[romantic]] about death.]
romantic
Here is the thing about shit: the only people who want to talk about it have a fetish.
And if you have fetish for shit, you deserve to die. And hey, know what? You'll be able to get off in the fact you'll be bathing in shit.
You sick fuck.
People have a fetish for piss. This is marginally better than a shit fetish, but it's still far from ideal.
One may suppose to avoid humiliation on death, one would empty their bowels a minute or two before their departure. But the only people who know their going to die are the suicidal, and it's not like most of them are well known enough to know how their corpse will smell.
You are a skull driven by a brain controlling a body and thinking it has any purpose. You don't. Your brain thinks it does, but you don't.
Your skull is broken and your house is covered in [[things|2]].
Here is where you sit: a dirty floor and a [[dirty boy]]. You are on a rug with a cat piss smell, touching hard fibers crusted with crumbs. You run your fingers up, down, shivers, cold.
You don't own a [[cat]].
Beside you is a stained coffee table, [[covered in|books]] books [[you|3]] didn't buy. Some were expensive. This is why you don't own a cat anymore.
Sitting on the floor in your blood-stained jeans with your laptop closed, the machine cold against your bare chest. It whirrs, still [[cooling down.]]
She came with you and left with you.
In a non-dying way.
The gun is also cooling down.
Bullets: 2.
==><==
This, that, this, that.
Things, things, things.
Here is the thing: You. You are a thing among things, you are a gross body on a gross floor, and you smell, but your house smells more.
Dark, damp, wet; English weather.
[[oh]]
You'll have to buy more catfood.
[[Oh.]]
You stand, up. You get to your feet. You cover your body with a shirt, you kick your things under the table, you knock a few books over, you stand, up.
(link: "Did you know?")[Tonsils are made of [[crypts]].]
(link: "Did you know?")[Over time, dead cells, food, saliva, bacteria, fungi, and mucus [[build up]] in them.]
(link: "Did you know?")[And that's how you get [[tonsil stones]].]
The skin of a tonsil twists and turns. Think of brain corel, or fancy pasta. Think of spongues, or porous rock. Think of a mass of worms, a pile of snakes, all merged into one.
We don't [[need]] tonsils, really, so you might as well remove them now.
On the wall is a this, and on another wall is that. A tapestry, a bird, a window, a photo.
At the door, you take her credit card, she won't mind. You take your car keys, and you make your way home.
This is the thing about things: they are either things forever, or destroyed with time.
Twist, hum, whirr, you feel the car like you felt your laptop. Rumble, purr, purr, your cat isn't here anymore, and you know that.
You can get [[her]] back.
You're going to need catfood.
her