It seemed that it would be a fight to the finish? All dignity aside. Two dogs wanting the same bone. Barely any meat left for one. The dream offered little solace and it was the dead of night once again. The sky lay upon the cage like and over washed purple cloth spread upon a birds cage. No sound of snoring but a clock’s steady tic to and an icebox’s hum. Two weeks now of waking up to this skittery weak feeling drenched in sweat. A stomach full of carpet tacks. Little to say for another nugget frugally spent alone. The dogs seemed lucky! They had the diversion of each others dedicated company. There were worse things than mayhem! Maybe than even a perpetually stomach? There was being completely and totally alone. Even the most miserable of all the dregs mankind so unrepentant to the sting of the whip must tremble at thirty days in the hole. What could they do with three-hundred time three? It was so easy to hallucinate a passing auto defaulting to the distant call of a listless wind. The hum of he icebox pump now angry attempting to eradicate that. The heart had swollen up hard against the internals and the lungs ached as if a ball of cotton was heavily lodged and mucous soaked descending slowly like the clog of a sink. At least the hard inflexible unstoppable galley slave beat had not begun. The system had turned to rust. The only current pleasure being a slight caress of cold upon bare skin. The dichotomy of mild extremes diverting all the rest from total domination of all things thought to be real.
A slight and subtle crack of the the neck just below the back of he skull as the head was leaned back hard into the chairs cloth cushion. Inky dark night interrupting the clear view of the same old ceiling so blatantly apparent in day. There were lives going on beyond its barrier as well. The head changed direction and the same mantra sprung out from hiding again. The building was alive with strangers. People that for the most part one never encountered nor even occasionally heard. Strange characters that would pop out of a door on occasion making both parties nervous and generally defaulting to some insincere play of easy familiarity. All parties ready to go back to the myth of no sign of life for an eternity of miles all around. To step back into one’s own threshold! And return to the conviction that they were hopelessly and totally without possible alternative to remain being alone. Trust in one’s fellow a rusty misguided key too long unused to have any trust in its ability to unlock any real hidden store of boundless felicity. Whose fault was that? Forgetfulness was the referee right now that sent all parties back to their corners until the bell would be rung. But the question coming t mind being, “Would it ever?” The shadows of one’s own existence seemed safer portrayed by paper thin phantom’s flicker long ago recorded. Every line pure and purposefully misstated as by the reigning script. The reason for any hesitation in this world of these long past phantoms being their delivery and the comfort of familiarity that it brought one. Something ersatz human that one felt that they could depend upon time and again. It was starvation otherwise.
The sticky rubber of flaccid skin upon skin. A certain rising sense of mild clamminess from muscles set too long in the awkwardness of a body over-saturated by the effects of inactivity. Seemingly astounding how an excess of flesh imposed such dilemmas? One might have thought that the satiation of an empty gut at rare intervals was a healthy thing? Instead some demon power utterly perverse demanded otherwise. This was a land of suffering and it had always been so. Transgressors who believed otherwise were always sooner or later brought back down to earth if they believed otherwise. Social pressure and an inbred jealously that allowed only the single notion that insufficient bread and fishes be shared universally with all. Leaving only the possibility of a lingering taste in the palate that inflated one’s desire for more. Those that wanted more. That took more. Most likely to suffer the worst. The crack of the head sounding again as the nape bounced a couple times against cool invisible cotton. A reliable stiffness evident now in the neck. Sleep was now coming on as both the approximation of a night of heavy drinking and a rising burden weighing down the back. Soon, so very soon, it would be time to rise like a penitent to revisit the rack. A strange recycling barely detectable whistle war whooped as if the squeak of an old outdated wooden chair creaking under the excitement of someone to patently obese. The continuous protest of a canine? Perhaps one of those unseen distant dogs that had lost the contest for that bone?