Notebook 014

Night In Furnace
Journal Entry: Sat Jul 8, 2006, 12:11 AM

Quarter to two in the morning and I actually consider it an early time to sleep. For the past few weeks I haven't been to sleep without hearing the milkman first. The air hangs still. No breeze, no movement. Even my expirated breath doesn't stir any flow. It just dissipates into nothing, not even still air, not even black space, just a flat rigid block of void. As it expels from my throat it scrapes the sides of my tender flesh red and snaps my jaw to flacidity. It feels like I'm blanketed in heat. Everything I touch is bland and lifeless because I can't break through this stagnant summer membrane that enshrouds my every splitting ridge. Tiny little pores open their mouths gently with eyes closed, timid and weary, only to be ripped into two and out flat like a chicken being stuffed with a tank. Single patches of surface dampness rage across my skin like a small child dropping a match in the center of a petrol playground; Flames flicker high then invert and snake away leaving all but charred flesh. It still crackles and squeals as the body becomes limbs, twisting upon themselves in akwardly jitting angular strides. Like film of a finishing spasm, a last moment, replayed in slow motion. Each reminant of life in muscle slowly tremors and quakes, flicking and flitting until all stalls and the footage is snapped back into realtime, to show second upon heavily layered second of a dead corpse, still and motionless. The peak has it's epic finale landslide; a sharp buzz of movement too quick to monitor aptly enough and figure what the fuck it was that just made your eyes blur. The mountain has been halved across the floor below and nothing stirs but rising dust and haze for everything else is smothered and dead. The small child is left in the playground. Everywhere in the playground. Her skin and face have now become the new layer of dirt to keep the tarmac warm.

It is this in which I am covered. Putrid filth of which I cannot escape, but embrace and squalor. I am a tiny mouse dropped into a lake of burning oil, but I'm smiling now. I am smilng.

Because when you're burning to death, the least thing you care about is the heat.