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Localized morphea

The pillow sits on my legs. And the legs sit on the floor.  Automatic writing was a factor I would never consider. There is no psychography but the constructed physique. My feet have been overheating during the last weeks. This indicates a rise in temperatures. This indicates the broken venous temperaments. At times the suns shine a million through the glass, at others my stomach is the only sun I know.

-Where are you going?
-I will be back right away.

I sit up from my day-long rest and my head floats unstable. Postural uncertainty becomes of the wasted numbers. Dizzy spells with a clench in my viscera; could either be my success in being an obedient creature or I don't know. The five o' clock terror is a daily newspaper give-away.

At that neighborhood they were traditional quite a while after traditional stopped being healthy. The milkman would milk his jugs every morning, then take a long walk around and drop by every house. The mothers welcomed him because he relieved them of their duties. Them mothers, they would skip their sagging nature at every chance thrown. He would leave a glass bottle and the suns would shine a million through it and the liquid inside just to turn to midnight monsters in the bowl. At that neighborhood winter would be somewhat real, with somewhat snow and cold BUT summer would always come sweet and soft, never sticky nor humid nor too warm. The smell of the air? It would be fresh, mountain, of bear excrement and wild strawberries and also hens' rotting feathers (although I prefer naming them hairs). The men would be men and the women would be nothing, women that is. That neighborhood was connected and not. A strong Father would strike back over His creations never mind the aging trees watching embarrassed around. Every grayed out mother would sit on their wide motherly loins, sweat on and out of them until they started being pleasingly dry, sweated, sweated, and under the strict observance every grayed out mother would sprout another. The houses would be concrete and sturdy but not enough to depress. The sky would be elevated and the stars bright. The clothes doubled. The needs better and respected. At that neighborhood the only mode was the superlative mode.

I sit up; the food floats in my head from down. Postural uncertainty comes along with the swelling of the feet and the enlargement of the veins and the prolapse of the valves. My hearing omits several cases of deaths. My hearing omits several cases of anything. I pay my attention to the repetitions; analytics, theorems, impractical approach, nervous weakness and dystrophic confrontations. It might have taken a while but crawling out has not been difficult. The holes are wider than they need to. This place might process some of those coming from the sacred far only to digest them to fibers. Bendt says he never enjoys this place unless we watch them foreigners crossing the mouths of the machine. I am keen on the blood that comes. I am rigid and I wouldn't mind losing a sibling over a sip. Bendt says he never enjoys a sip unless it is a sip that never ends. When we connect our mouths we ooze something that never ends. We went over at the poxfull sofa; the ivy outside the building helps my back hide from the eyes of the city.  The rest would have no idea but I have discovered velvet in this mouth. In the beginning of the shit. The holes are wider than they need to. So we slide in and out without even touching, without even sliding. Move from one space to another. Our mothers are so muchly raped they have forgotten our names and theirs. Our fathers are tiny mouthpieces swinging their waists over the caves bragging and we spit on their faces. We spit a lot because TB is unforgiving. The best of lovers -unforgiving. One never forgets, never convalesces.

-These were my best.

Still the enlargement inside; I stand still, I sit still. Truth is I rarely stand and when I walk I chafe a great deal. The pillow sits on my legs. The legs sit on the floor. Under the greasy skin the fur of the sofa sticks. The fiction is the terror that occurs, every morning at five o' clock. Figures running outside, thieves loitering in the balconies. The deepest dark right there plays up for their suspicious activity as they are well hidden behind the ivy, invisible to the city's eyes. And these sounds I hear right at the tip of my sleep, these sounds are not the day crawling out again; these are the sounds of the last day's loss. The water that drops in drops in the tap is equally inimical to the rest so I sweat against the fur and shut.

I would turn my head, at five o' clock and catch their faces. Not a cohort, not a couple, something in between. They wouldn't stand. They wouldn't run. But their hands would run across my blinkers. Too bad, the blinkers are sewn on my eyelids. And them they are nailed on the skull. Yet them are stable and simmering but also them are their worth, nothing. Entertaining pioneering pawns wrapped up in a leather bag.
-Claim what is not mine! I would shout at their fading bodies. Unresponsive patients- I can never save up enough mercy. Bendt says his fingers might fall off from the morphea that's expanding and turning itself into something more solid, into something more. I can never save up enough mercy. I ask to be excused.

That neighborhood is where they all come from. As spoilt, as fluid and immobile and vague and finished, all them figures at five o' clock mornings. Holding their humanly guns and carrying their humanly prides and loving their humanly hopes all they are for me are five o' clock mornings visitors that last a minute and cost me my morning sweat on the bedsheets.

I sit on the fur of the sofa. I stare at the ceiling, loyal as it is. My feet burn. What a waste.