Cold
My cold. I wake up with it, having slept on my right side, with my right eye slipping backward out of the socket and slithering both oily and gritty down my right nostril to drip out of my nose, eventually onto my shirt-front, already damp with blood from the gash in my throat, tiny woodsmen having stood on my shoulders all night, sawing back and forth, back and forth with a dull blade.
I asked mel ball to draw it for me, but he said he couldn’t do the woodmen. They would lend too comic a note; by my own description, the cold was tragic. Besides, he didn’t believe them.
01.04.18
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