To put the last 72-hours to bed, I’ve – ahem – come up with this:
I lie sprawled … spewed up like a broken spider-crab on the tarry shingle of morning. The light does me harm, but not as much as looking at things does; I resolve, having done it once, never to move my eyeballs again.
My mouth has been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum. During the night, too, I’ve somehow gone on a cross-country run and then been expertly beaten up by the secret police.
I feel bad.