Fists fist his stomach, in a fluid form: red wine from the night before, now a turbulent, turbid storm. No vomitting at work now, no slacking off each chore. But fist your stomach at lunch time - choose something solid, to mop up the slime like a whore.

And I'll fist my blog with his little tale of woe, because I, fist, decide it fisted so. Wine is but a fluid fist, and food a solid one, and work and the world are fists too, fists that weigh a ton. And here from my little pivot on the wrist, it seems all around the world, fists fist fists. I, fist of fists, declare it so.

A Monday hangover, and everything seems like hell. I like it like that, and swell.