Tuesday 29 September 2009

FUCKING HEAD SOUND

He lay down on the bed and a familiar sound occurred. It was a sound inside his head. It was a sound in slow motion. It was a sound that resembled his mother's voice. But in slow motion, eerily fragmented. Like an echo inside some impossible pipeline.
It was eerie but, in a way, eerily soothing. He let it drift over him, the familiar spell of codified stupefaction.
He drifted off into perturbing dreams, any memories of which evaporated quickly upon awakening. He prepared a bowl of breakfast cereal and opened the door to allow the dog outside to frolic in the dew damp garden.
As he devoured his breakfast he witnessed the grotesque spectacle of the dog straining to expel a thick turd.

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