Dear chronometer. I get the feeling that they are afraid of you. It would be hard to keep a corpse in the basement thinking of you. In your hateful bars of seconds. I'm still stationed under the table. I press the knife until I feel the slips in the skin. The blood marking droplets. That sensation brings me back to reality. I can digest the pain and use it to keep me awake. The table protects me. The incense reaches me pleasantly and chases away the flies coming out of the dark abyss. The basement is that apocalyptic swarm. The cat has come to instigate me with its fur and purrs. It was looking for food. Maybe my eyes and its anguish. I would try to get to my feet. But I abandon the idea. The kitchen is a cold vault. The severed fingers are still in the glove compartment. I hatefully return to the feeling of cutting them like butter. I could write on the wall. Make some crosses. Count the days, the scale of pain.
Decay should be a gift. A form of oblivion. The potatoes will no longer be fresh. I hate their smell now, mixture of rot and grudges. Maybe one day someone will find my bottles. And millions of potato branches will emerge from the cellar. Growing rampantly. Turning the kitchen into a world of lichen and rainforest. Leaving fleshy fruits. Fertilized with skin and bones.
The cat watches me. His world is upside down with mine. We are these two little shrew. Huddled under the table. It seems that beyond the kitchen everything is inhospitable. You can feel the cold whistling constantly. Spring may come. Turn the lawn into a hated tick haven. I must have six bottles left. Some more to sell. Someone will take pity and buy me back potatoes and something palatable.
As I hold on to the steel. I press the edge. Its coldness against flesh. Life escapes in all directions.
I will fit this one into somewhere, now let me think that smell linger on and no one knocked at the frontdoor or?