I’m not much for content warnings on my writing or filters on my conversation, but if I were, this one would read like a. Ominous sign post at the end of haunting credits:
Beware to all who enter here.
The softfruit remains, and she’s gathered a bit of a crowd.
Somewhere between my navel in my tail lies an orchestra which is impossible to accurately visualize and difficult to describe.
As I have done on the yearly or so, I allowed a baffled ultrasonographic cartographer to access and recount the state of affairs between my front and back, left and right, within the cavern of my peritoneum.
As is their custom, the painters of sound images, she mostly remained tight-lipped, with an occasional harumph of frustration and one mention of “whatever that other thing is,” which, to my trained hypochondriacal ear is roughly translated as an unexploded landmine.
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