It’s possible some images might offend you. Not my problem. Of course I’m not talking about the photographs.
It doesn’t end, he thought, as he swabbed the last greasy dregs of his defecation off his sphincter. There’s always more. He stood and flushed, and held the lever down, as it seemed sometimes to aid the vortex in swallowing his grief. And wondered what changed that, what really made the difference so that occasionally all remnants of evacuation would be consumed.
It’s a long list of other’s people shit to take care of. Hove-to here, this interrupted life, navigating a maelstrom deviled by the flotsam of others. A course changed to accept the prevailing winds, winds he hoped would die.
It doesn’t matter to him. It’s a tip of the bottle away, sleep. Otherwise, thought is condensation on the windshield, pushed around in salty swirls, nicotinized, turning the beam of oncoming lamps into a broad plane of glare.
If not, though, we wrestle with our history. And succumb to it, eventually. Sleeplessness due to the past? An unrelenting nightmare from which we cannot wake and hope the opposite. The ablutions, supposedly, aid in this. Scrubbing the etching plaque off teeth, scraping endless miles of stubble from the chin, thin concave plastic discs pinched off the iris to be pressed upon again tomorrow.
He gathers in the folds of his gown, a long silk thing trestled and wadded by glue, slapping at door-jambs and hanging on the unburied heads of nails holding trim. It fit fine the night before, and nothing’s changed, nothing’s different. He’ll fold it under himself and lay softly in bed, and loll under the fits of wind, chatter over crests of waves and settle with a thump in between.