Voilà le portrait sans retouche

when the body gets ill, you feel like a passenger. many things go on at once and you can only sit tight and see what happens. you have next to no control of it

the dumb machine. your bowels gurgling and pushing and tightening and wrestling
your joints loose or creaking your kidneys shrillingly screaming your loins burning in acid or festering in wheals

you shiver or you tremble, flickering like a lamp, with misterious goosebumps coursing through the skin that feels too tight, altogether too foreign

and you stare and wonder. where does a body end, indeed

this body stands apart from the other bodies
this body dies alone

i said this to him and he swallowed hard, like he'd understood

the body, rené said, speaks loud. mais ses mots sont insensés

(but you kissed me, darling, and now my nerves are turned on. i hear them like musical instruments)

so, you as you are a freerider, hitching on your body. then you are the collusion of a myriad tiny voices. you are just the darkness that lies behind the eyes: the zing of electric currents. the lovely song of wind chimes

an accident and nothing else. (nothing, nothing, tra la la). the splendor and misery of it, in a nutshell.