file: 12/str*fgh:
meat boy born from glass womb; broken shards signing for the delivery. Hands of midwife shake within waldo gloves; metal armatures making their own contributions to the marks on meat boy's new flesh. They drain fluids from his spine; take sample slices of flesh and bone-marrow; make measurements; run exhaustive tests; take more samples; pack him in surgical webbing and send him down to the incinerator.
 

file: 12/str*fgh.1:
Nurse with sad eyes, who has always believed she is a character in a song by Kate Bush, takes pity on bleeding infant. Sees in its scars a metaphor for her life; reads messages from the random mottles of blood on the webbing. Takes the child and burns the webbing; fills out the paperwork, smuggles child out through security and disappears.

meat boy raised in downtime slum; unbalanced mother; city rats taking random bites out of his flesh. Passage of years marked off in malformation of meat boy's physical body, in the gradual malfunction of meat boy's mind.
 

file: 12/str*fgh.8:
Nursemother dreams of organon and big skies; feeds the infant when he mewls; bandages and re-bandages his never-healing skin. In her mind he is her salvation; in the real world he is her damnation.  She breathes in the rankness of meat boy's decay and imagines her life had taken a different path; had led her to somewhere other than this squalid place: this half-heaven/half-hell half-life. meat boy speaks, but in no language she has ever heard. Sometimes, though, she convinces herself that his words are in the language of angels, or of the world before the Tower of Babel. On bad days she recognises those words for what they really are. The sound of dead children everywhere, screaming their eternal hatred at the world.
 

file: 12/str*fgh.9:
 meat boy watches the world through a mirror. Nursemother recited 'The Lady of Shallot' in place of nursery rhymes, and meat boy listened carefully every time she did and made mental notes in the blast furnace of his brain. He drew the mirror metaphor from Tennyson's verse: the mirror represents his distance the world he surveys; that distance constructs the tower that imprisons him; he doesn't weave (doesn't know what a loom looks like), but he does paint; Camelot is lost to him forever.
   He doesn't have the 'lovely face' of the cursed maiden in the tower.
   meat boy's face looks bad. Swollen, flayed, gouged and torn; hand-stitched in places. Scared eyes simmer in his dark-rimmed sockets. He is not a loner. He is alone.
   Nursemother drinks too much and fucks strangers for money. She dreams that she is conceiving meat boy again and again from the rank seed of corpulent businessmen; rat-faced clerks; stinking drunks and chisel-faced sadists. It's only when she dreams of growing meat boy inside her that she feels real. Kate Bush songs are far from her mind now. meat boy listens to the lustsounds of strangers and the bored histrionics of his Nursemother and talks to himself in words that only he can ever understand.
 

file: 12/str*ggg.1:
meat boy wants to love a good woman, pursues her in dreams across a field of bones and fire. She never sees him, so he will never be rejected. Nursemother rejected him with her fantasies of making him from the sweat and seed of strangers. Need became obsession and then came the virus and she shrivelled and died and left him to fend for himself. meat boy lives in the dumps and tips of the city, eking out the meagrest of existences from the detritus of humanity. Eats rotten food, junkyard rats, loves the salty tang of used condoms, sucks the ends of hypodermic needles, eats leather and wool and sometimes metal. Never seen, never wants to be. Love will never occur in a meat boy life, and if love is verboten then so is human contact. meat boy watches love but will never know how it feels. His soul is as scarred as his skin. As his mind. Lives in a trashcan, masturbates in a binbag, wants it all, get nothing but crumbs.
  born on a moonday, marred on a toonsday, gorged on a woundsday
meat boy longs for the embrace of waldoes, the hard and cold feel of a glass womb. Wants scars and pain. Makes rusty metal sign his skin. Infection a welcome by-product. Suck venom in and turn it into blood. pus boy meat boy lost boy dead boy lust boy need boy meat boy.
   Will hurt the world because the world hurt him.
 

file: 12/str*ggg.3:
meat boy wants you. Followed you home, clinging to the shadows. Saw you in your window and recognised your form. Nursemother 2, you can save him, if only you could see him. But meat boy looks like nothing, feels like nothing, wants you to hold his seed  in your glass womb, wants you to deform his seed with waldoes, wants you to melt his seed in your furnace. Wants to suckle at your breast and feel your life flow into him. You don't see him. You can't. Paints his pictures of you in ash and fermented foodstuffs on glass. Glass is sharp and reminds him of his birth.
   You haven't seen his paintings, so you don't know how he sees you, how he wants you to look, how he dreams of your interior surfaces and of showing those surfaces to the world, to the flies, to the rats, to other meat boys if others exist.
   You don't know his hunger, his need, his dream, his weapons, his lust, his drool, his animal ways or his monstrous days.
   But you will.
   You have a cat-flap.