upright now... nerves sandwiched between massaging tongues. i'm walking through a room-wide projection of my own endocrine system, its imagery warping over me into a shawl.
the door is a dense swirl of colored smoke. it remains secure in a block when nudged open. i enter the hallway. rope ladders hang down from watery holes in the ceiling. they are not dripping down, though.
a figure is float-skating between the ladders. they are cloaked in a sheet of shiny jade, like a child playing ghost with their bachelor father's shiny silken bedspread. their head is facing downward, its crown capped with a wide hat, the brim spined with a fanning web of cigarette holders. when the figure gets close to me, i politely manuver out of its path. they raise their head in acknowledgment of my common courtesy, nodding in a warm bow, face conceleaed behind a tear-shaped mask, the mouth and eyes like streteched barcodes.
back to the indetermite walking. i peer upward to glance at the rippling puddles where the ladders lead. they all seem to be alternating gradients of deep red. some have gnarled shadows inspecting their reflections in the surface of the water. none of these wet lookers seem to notice me... the stocky damp naked lady covered in scabby birthmarks and what i can only assume is the woozy open-mouth countenance of a blissing fuck-junkie... until i hit upon a trio of indivituals peering past their reflections and straight through me.
on my left;
- a strong-jawed dead-eyed man wearing a cowl made out of teeth.
on my right:
- a cadaverous grinning man drool-dripping black ooze into the puddle.
in the center;
- someone wearing a fencing mask that has been heavily spray-painted, bulging the grid of the face in a primer-drip.
the center figure hovers a bulk of sackcloth over the puddle. they open the bag and turn it upside down. the contents of the bag fall through the puddle, clipping the rungs of the rope ladder before landing on the floor with a splatty thud.
the severed leathery head of an older man, face beat red from years of boner pill regiments and social cocaine abuse. the word "NO" is carved into his forehead, the wound a cauterized brown, edges rimmed with still-burning embers of glowing orange.
a voice is hacking into my brains like an amorous hag... drunk on the blood of nuclear rodents and wielding a hachet fashioned from the pelvic bone of a masicated toddler skeleton.....
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