...a deathly serenade...

he lost his arm. Have you told Ahmed? I asked in
her stirring; her eyes remaining glazed over, oily
black hair covering the other half of her face,
bare butt cheeks careening into an upright
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA yawning... Clearly, the night had been met with
more than just this retelling (of the violation) that
I was still trying to understand, as it had affected
the night in its entirety in numerous fashions: in
an unlikely turn of events the eggs were truly the
greatest taste I had ever encountered, I thought,
truly remarkable and significant for a myriad of
reasons. It was so strange that I had this feeling
of wanting to put whole atmospheres, inanimate
objects, people, in my mouth in order to taste
them in this very same way. I am funked in a way,
at the time. Am I hedonist you wonder? Can you
really say? I don’t think so no, not in totality, but
perhaps psychologically I was what I called
elsewhere— because those eggs tasted like the
way in which you would consume a wet dream;
waking up with the evidence, like an accomplice,
left with a gun that had avenged a wrongdoing—
Like a taboo, they smelt ravenous in my mouth,
and so this is a memory I toyed with even as it
was happening, I remember; like I am in the
troughs of depersonalization. This very simple
happening seemed an epiphany, so much so that
I called the happening the experience. But
physically I am still here, I thought, in an
indulgent woe. It was dispiriting that I lost my
sense of taste, but I think I felt the totality of the
missing senses’ very sensation that night; I truly
was enraptured somehow by a relinquishing of
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