Rumbling like empty stomachs
Talking, begging questions, assuming induction
And criticizing logic derived from honest ache
This is not a God I plan to create

Come down to the washroom 

Breathe where you can find it 

Slap the words on your body 

World of caterpillar dances 

Hold your best friend like a newborn 

Through the trampoline living-room 

Euphoric quiet black doom 

Held over like a falling blanket 

Or a stream off a cliff 

Ever changing, rolling, released hips 

Smash together with addict violence 

Where the water falls, lift your head and swallow

Spin like spin like spin like carousels 

Kiss the animals that toss you 

Up and down, latchkey kids grown 

Hold on to the flight 

Its such a wonderful lucid night

It was a small cellar of sorts, a narrow passage divided in two by an oversized plastic shower curtain. The white reminded her of the hospital. She removed her clothes piece by piece, standing at last, slightly arched from the day spent huddled under florescent lights, her mind like a mitt ready to catch. She had found she enjoyed her compulsive studies above all other escapes, alcohol alike.  The dwindling of her sex drive was obvious; she spent her time sleeping when she used to crave the pleasure, the tickle of sex. She looked down at her body without opinion and rubbed the small of her back, pressing against the pain of early aging. She turned the knob in the shower to hear the sound of water, crisp as it hit the bottom. Hidden in her bag she found the instrument of the demons, used to weld a shrine to the evils in the world right there on her body.

She took off her shower shoes. She had never before felt the pit that drained the dirty water from her. All the diseases that crept there would catch instantly to their first host and she would close her eyes to feel the alternating pressures press against the thick skin on the bottom of her feet, and she would know for the first time what it felt like to catch a disease. She had to turn her face when she washed her arm, the smell of rusting metal made her sick with contempt. Would she grow old, she wondered. The constant stream of steaming water had numbed the back of her neck, and she had found how it felt when the dirt is too thick to wash off.