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My confines are a mixture of blood and alchemy, hardly containing vast innards. A muscular skeleton must be properly nourished on ammonia and sulfides, but the trick is to find corruption where there is only oatmeal, which reminds me of a membrane I once possessed, back when my catapult was just a plastic spoon. My host body is a parasite’s plantation for harvesting the mincemeat of the working class, as they gasp and wax flabbergasted. This corpus conundrum, when examined by science, only laughs and destroys its own whereabouts in a blaze of nerve endings. Sometimes I wonder if my brain has a mind of its own, for if there really is a dog, then it follows that its leash must lead somewhere. It is precisely this way of thinking that is located off screen, near the spleen. Of all the insects known to medicine, the human person is definitely one for the history books. Man’s symbiotic relationship with chaos seems a welcome aphorism in the clandestine terminology of tale telling and its proverbial offshoots. Documenting periodical excretions is one thing, but excreting periodical documents is quite another.
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