Right under the electric line.

Gurgling stomach. Sweat on my forehead and on my chest. Sitting inside this sealed box where glasses are windows shut and tightly screwed, where air vents are air vents but there’s no air coming out, where the engine starts but stops more often and it keeps failing again and again because it hasn’t run in a long time. At one time, it was a horse running miles every second day but now it’s just a snail and I am lying on my stomach in the liver of this snail. I haven’t had my tea or even my water since this morning. I am not a big fan of tea. I am not a big fan of anything. I am just traveling to somewhere miles from here. It’s all red white red white red white in my eyes. All red white and poisoned under my ribcage. I am typing trash while a fly drinks from my well and devours my sandwich. I am typing trash because this time, nothing else can kill time. I am typing trash again because I just woke up from a poor, uncomfortable sleep. I have got to spit out something. Life’s not the same without spitting out from time to time. When you spit out, you might feel kind of lighter. Yeah, right there. I said it. ‘Why is the train taking so long?’ I ask a man running up and down the little space in the compartment. ‘Power failure,’ comes the answer. Ofcourse. A power failure. Let’s take another nap and let’s hope the bats come flying soon and eat us all.

Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

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