The rapist in his wheelchair tracks slowly across a continent of frozen filth.
My sissy body is riddled with concealed listening devices.
I look out the window and dream of vomit plumes and dimpled yellow fat.
Outside is inside and I can prove it with topological math.
A baby with stubby wings breaks the sound barrier and disappears up its own anus.
The urine-breathed face of someone I don’t know leans heavily against my shoulder.
Is he dead or just very tired?
A lungworm peeks out his nostril, hesitates a moment, then wriggles down his sleeve.
The sun is grey.
I am cold. So very cold.
