Look close, look closer: the leaping light of desire no longer nudges up the crease of the trousers, and gone from the eyes are that flicker of flame, that hint of fire. The belly does not burn or tumble with want or curry, the feet do not flinch over hot coals, not in the step even the hint of a hurry.

Yes. Today, kids, it's a hangover. Here is the point to extinguish all your expectations. I do not even want to say fuck you, or fuck you.

Everything is fed-up, as simple as an element: the stomach sick of food, the brain blaming the blood for the hurt, the blood sluggish, stumbling in its run around the veins, and the lungs coughing and complaining, and I, Fist, to be frank bored of blogging. It is time for sleep, for bed, to fall into the depths of the duvet like rotten food turning to mulch, dropping down into the earth, the 50% cotton clothing devoured by centuries of worms and soil, drifting to the swimming black depths of oil, to rejoin the dinosaurs in total death, to slump, to stop...

I mean, time to search for stillness in a sleep, here upon this troubled earth which never stops spinning and spinning and spinning.