The Sour Milk Suck Experience


Cockadoodledoo. He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not, also with him, graciously give us all things? Ajofh I-owh;tl ejkbr? Itsy bitsy, Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to G-. And the peace of Him, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Kriste Jezus Rabid Tooltus. Where do…Sign this. Verse 18:19. Rumababababababatumba. It says the service is unavailable at this time. Suck suck beep.…S.oun.d d.rinks in through the static cream – poured into ears. X shaped tape torn – off eyes. Blink. Light drips down over – bleached spheres. Blink. I have a trunk – pumping little oxy cleaned oxygen up, through my n.nose and into, my, crying crueling lungs. Drag it out, and feel, the little spikes bite into, my arms again. Somebody has shave wiped and clean drooled my face, up. No flowers around. This is not heaving heaven. Nor looks like burn blast furnace hell. Still alive? Thoughts not clear but can still think, a bit, smoky though. Where is she? Her. Toes pin tingle. Moving, can still slow move lift, shaky arms and legs. Swing over wrapped in tissue dress. Sit up and look down. The flabbergut’s disappeared. There’s a small white clock. Tick tock tick. Notice the pudding on the side table. Dip and finger in and break the warm skin. Lick it. Vanilla. Heart monitors monitor the heart. Pull it off. The red line, it flattens. Beeps. Must get out. Put the little monitor onto the face of the clock. Then submerge the clock in the custard. I still have brains. I still have weight. I still must escape. It’s so quiet in here. Nobody must be paying attention to anything except the clock. Click clock. Click clock. Click clock. The guards’ long gone. No alarms sound. The white halls. The white doors. The white lock on the white handle. Outside. Wandering through snow, deeply lost in silence. Nothingness is free and beautiful once again. The open space. The natural icy green carpet runs straight into the high blue orifice. Forever and ever. Remove from my pockets three items I procured from the hospital. One litre of anaesthetic. One syringe, butterfly point. One small ashy tear packet hygiene wipe. Don’t know where to start. Hold the bottle and think of all the sinking sleep in it’s possession. Twist the lid. It sticks at first. Red knuckle twist. Schlink. It’s open. Lift to nose. Taking sniff, sniff, light headed, sniff. Pass. Out. Nauseous. Free.

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