Men drooling with idiot faith, tossing their offspring into the pit

epub or mobi

I do the report and go home. A door closes behind me. Everything seen through cellophane. The furniture like meat. The color of meat. Why did I buy furniture that color? Lettuce drapery. The place is white bread with mayonnaise. A sandwich. Wrapped in cellophane. I feel like a cockroach or a rat. Eyes bulging, little gnawing teeth. Bite through the glitz, the wrapper, get to the business. I am a tired man. I don't even drink. For me, drinking is like trying to inflate a slab of pavement, something very heavy with no more holes in it. Everything just runs off into the gutter. I have never puked on this carpet, but it looks like it has been puked on. And, it smells. It smells like oranges and catsup and sour cream. Like I throw my food on the floor and step on it. Just leave it there. Well, I can't shampoo the carpet, now. Fuck it. Lay down on the sofa. It's too big, the sofa. Big and square. Made of luncheon loaf. It stinks. That's why I smoke so much; so everything will smell the same.

I am laying on the sofa in my coat hungry, like this is a bus station. It's my apartment. I hate it here. All the florid memories of people's opened up kidneys, brains like cactuses. My reports read like a naturalist's diary. I have got beyond the whodunit stage of police work, beyond crime and solving crime. I look at people like plants. Plants strangle each other as a matter of course, and no-one is offended. Unless it is a weed. But, who decides what is a weed? To me it's all the same. Someone shoots a politician, politician kills and rapes a four year old. The garden is overgrown. Everything's sense of its own importance is bloated. It's just people claiming the ground on which other people stand, buildings crawling over each other to get in the sun.