I was all in and I had a full-time job and I had an
apartment and I had a car and I made payments
but I was a dungeon and I was stealing and reaching
out for help and my gut got me into a place and my first
day was psychotically welcoming and they always asked
are you ready to give up
and my new outlook on life as a whole and that was enough to begin
the process and I’m actually honest with myself
and others and if I could do it and the real world and my
eyes have been opened to the real world
and If I can do it honestly anyone can.
it is only right of her to want to be historically preserved if she cannot bear life much longer. she has this kind of internal logic that keeps her from doing it herself, maybe a holdover from sermons in youth that she could never subscribe to but were doomladen enough to judder in starts and stops when she ruminated on death, a locked groove wearing the needle out. if there’s a Heaven she doesn’t want to be precluded from bearing witness to it, and neither to a Hell really. discounting the eternal torture, there was a rugged aesthetic pleasure to every representation she’d seen of it that she’d hope to get even an inkling of in person, but then again that means having to discount eternal torture.
eternal torture isn’t quite how she describes life here—for one, it’s finite, can be ended at one’s own discretion—it’s just something that’s been sapped of its blisses, beyond explication, beyond inadequately surmising in a creative-writing-task suicide note. that’s the reason why if she goes in a manner that’s self-evident in its nature as a suicide, it’ll become a minor mystery to those who made their pockets full with her. they’ll dart across the scene amateur-sleuthlike, forcefeeding reasons and rationalisations that aren’t there into her relaxed-open mouth.
and also she doesn’t want to let the team down, the statistician’s morbid pastime that was girls like her. but then even if she escapes the categorisation of trans suicide as planned, by her excursions and their intended outcome she’ll be grouped into the datafield of trans murder. could she not be a suicide or murder victim and then be laid to rest peacefully without the baggage of representing an entire community’s susceptibility to such things? it’s the most mundane component of her anyway. most people don’t even notice, how she misses in retrospect when people noticed, as awful as it seemed at the time. when she could throw an open-hearted look at another trans girl and have that same look imparted back upon her, not have it evaded by the lookee who mistakes her for just another clocker.
We intend to sing the love of danger, the habit of energy and fearlessness. We affirm that the world’s magnificence has been enriched by a new beauty: the beauty of speed. A racing car whose hood is adorned with great pipes, like serpents of explosive breath – a roaring car that seems to ride on grapeshot is more beautiful than the Victory of Samothrace. We will glorify war – the world’s only hygiene – militarism, patriotism, the destructive gesture of freedom-bringers, beautiful ideas worth dying for, and scorn for woman.
Heat death in the Texas eschaton. Thousands of horrible huge racing metal monstrosities, black Decepticons, towering trucks mutating outward in every direction, throbbing with the heinous life-force of the necromantic black blood sucked from deep soil, coughing black smoke, burning tires, shining grills.
Hyperstar Lumen was an aging photorealistic Pacman knockoff with bulging teeth and cheeks perpetually flushed red. He had amassed a considerable fortune from his years of appearing in a slew of video game titles, ranging from maze hunts, RPGs, first person shooters, sidescrolling and three-dimensional platformers, handheld snake clones, pseudo-roguelikes sold on casual web markets, and edutainment point & click adventures limited to CD-ROM. He fancied himself an artist with untapped potential, always lamenting what little creative control he had over his career, and decided a few years into his retirement to independently finance, produce, and direct a miniseries of eight mockumentaries satirizing cancel culture, consumerism, and the death of common sense. They were monumental box office failures.
- The increasing incoherence of reality justifies seemingly any form of escapism.
- You boil yourself down to a few notable signifiers.
- Pornographic fantasies datamosh and interpolate with your suicide plans.
- When I close my eyes, the pixels are burnt into my retina, blazing like fierce green-blue suns. A mind colonised with these data packets.
- On a forum, I once saw someone say in an argument “you can’t criticise me, you literally eat your own shit” to which the person they were arguing with responded “that isn’t true, I only eat beautiful women’s shit”. While beauty is subjective, I can confirm that he does in fact eat women’s shit.
- Sometimes I think about finding the Facebook headquarters and walking in with a suicide vest strapped to my body.
- I’m worried the internet has stolen all of my memories. Or maybe prevented me from making them in the first place.
- Impact font meme posted 4:26 AM August 3rd,2015 – Image: a smiling anime girl. Upper text: PLEASE HE. Bottom text: PLEASE HELP ME.
- Beheading videos have numbed my sense of self.
- There are numerous places around the internet where men gather to discuss autofellatio. Many of the posts on these forums involve selfsuck-related injuries. These injuries don’t discourage them, however.
- I talk about myself constantly, but I have no idea who I am.
- Last post – June 24, 2018: “i think ive forgotten how to love”.
bulling swerves thru the sticks feeling dreamy. let’s ram. failure’ll be my epitaph lol martians. drag thru cropfield there’s plenty ghosts there they’re swaying sapphire dresses in twilight while i’m wheeling sped ivory. slip me your there tongue i’ll swallow it whole i’m a pit flickered there striking kindling in the onyx sheath of earthfall bleating soot in god’s eye. prick my neck watch it deflate. cock stumbles. first xanax age fifteen thanks doc! glory’s strife dipout nowise there i fill my tongue with white sticks. carve faces into stallwall. bitters make my eyeroll black. pennsylvania held my hand said there there dump that fucking purse right there split that gut blew ash. i’m feeling farmgoing eggpowdered. let’s makeout. daylights out. what do you want.
In the first hospital you are shackled to the bars of a rolling bed in an underground catacombs. They remove your clothes, jewelry and wristwatch and draw diagrams on your skin with permanent marker, circling your tattoos and connecting the circles in a constellatory map that covers your body. You know that if you followed the directions on the map it would lead you to your home, but you can’t see the map in its entirety, since parts of it are drawn on your back, shoulders, head, and neck. In any case you do not possess the kind of vehicle that would be necessary to follow such a map. You worry that the map may fall into the wrong hands. You have heard the staff whispering amongst themselves when they thought you were sleeping. They refer to you as “the terrorist.” Many of them glare at you in open disdain. There is only one nurse who treats you with any kindness. At times the nurse appears as a human of Afro-Caribbean descent, but at others she more resembles a large bipedal canid, with smooth black hair and a snout full of sharp fangs. The nurse visits your bed from time to time to ask if you can remember your own name. You feel your mouth open and close, though the motion seems disconnected from any power of will on your part. No sound comes out.
The Catboy Is Deceitful Above All Things
He’s some kind of guy. Imagine a sacred kind of guy, the last kind of guys of his kind, sitting on the curb of streetside Walgreens on a sweaty Friday night. He’s licking his shredded skaterboy elbows with his spiky tongue, stimming off asphalt grime wedged in his teeth. Sadly they’re all fake because he got a septic gum infection in catboy school. He’s walking to Walgreens on a Friday night to buy sugar-free gummy worms for Saturday’s hangover. Some kind of guy, if you can imagine this kind of guy, who tells people to kick him because he’s soft and lacks self-esteem. He’s hates the surveillance cameras stalking him from street lit supermarkets. It starts snowing on the way home. He’s the last catboy and he disgusts everyone.
The last catboy explains to the Walgreens cashier he’s new to the neighborhood. He’s wearing a face mask so no one sees the staph infection serrating his catboyskin a raw sanguine. America’s last catboy simps for the nice lady, with blonde hair like snow from heaven sticking to the branches of dead trees outside. He steps on dog shit staining the concrete sidewalk.
The sugar-free gummy worms cling to metal hooks in the sweets aisle. They make the real-life crinkling noise he hears in ASMR videos. Only he can hear this resemblance with his special catboy ears. The supervisor is watching him. The last catboy stands paralyzed pressed up against the cool plastic wrapping. Sucrosed, eyeless worm faces bulge, sucked into the shredded sphincter of a sodomite spectator. Leave, they whisper, go go.
Wouldn’t it be kind of funny, he sometimes thinks, if the worms had eyes — he thinks it would be funny if he tells the cashier this joke — sugar-free gummy worms should have cartoon googly eyes, the kind you shoplift from craft supply stores. The last catboy shudders. The automatic doors seals shut behind him. This is his stop.
ººHave΄ u accepted JEsüsღ into ̑̑ ͜ ͡¶ ™҉ ͡° ͜ ͡* ͏ jesuƒ grØups ∆
in that crushed place within our soul the flowers of.
ღ, t҉҉rtug҉r says we live beneath a perfidious black sun burning cancer upon t҉he ̑world. tortured souls in torment, and the child is-
CSB forming in rusty spools of thread (memories and dreams), to be wrapped in ̑grey tarp.
waiting in the wings, waiting. lay with me.
the nightmares of mankind.
garbage soul ash eternitatii. homeless abuse. no voice but years of’ silence, crawling with hands around your ankles, dragging you down.
you wake up on the sidewalk, trembling, caked in blood, surrounded by a dozen bloody bodies all ̑folded over. been ̑2b ̶ hacked by teenagers or something sღḙмere.
fantasy is reality and you’ve been bitten by a radioactive ultra-homie. fantasy gacked by reality.
my name is EYE cღean i wanna be a ̑hundred bibles when i’m a feƒenomena enreddening, slithering between yOur brain and shadle. three cheers for hard vapes. the tƶɑrget’s face flushes with cold blood
, ҉frozen. iiaƒage raps at the door of уour brain…
push it down, ̑i imagιned …
you recalƖ your unconscious pαrts. oh bαby shed y0ur s҉epmpсƖeƖds.
…from the onslaught/ breath of the raw teeth of nothingness the spent laughter of foreign of some death-like pulse given to unshadow as was till never of throughout as if to utter in the collapse of skeletal lights where to having birthed once shattered glass of some ferocity skinning the night to the veins all naught as if to ever echoing throughout a vibrate of exigency shudder blind weight a sudden as if to mimicry to cut to reclaim the maggot tones of what spoken haven to scatter the pelts of long forgotten in the cancerous air as was once so shall it be till rapture ever of closed fist a-bleed sickness to dredge as was once tidal to give sudden reclaim as if to having nothing of the eye’s removal a breakage point a tide of never having before witnessed merely by the reflect of the skyline’s premise as was dragged in the kick & scream of bitter silences where to option is to burn to char a sudden word a semblance etched across the vellum emptily all sung from naught broke shale through the fingers to fall upon where other than no landscape worthy of the winds to clear away the meat of emaciated loveless breaking from fever pitch in sickness & in deathly-like as onward into having no course for the oppress the process lacking in progress cut stone an illuminary absence in the absentee skull as if to say as was in the beginning it has come to end to furrow to nothing more where the silence cannot breath-like in the dead tense the breakage of flesh vibrating in clear dark space it has walked through passageways and sought the exit-tidal pathway dreamt of where a recourse to having nethertheless back steps a motion of this or other than having of the forgotten nothing more to bare/ as if to collide in the weight of it the shadows vane the absolute in terse dislocation of dispel as to be in a rat’s trace a solace emptily as scar upon scar nothing of the having ever been otherwise no vault of which to drag from in the hung light quartered then vast as speaketh from no distance from in elixir of burning as if to longing to begone as if to end were to/ all vast yet no distance to taste/ nothing other than to be nothing of nor to see through cataract skin of the cataract view of dishevelled meat burning throughout as cold spasm taketh from the outstretched skyline in a catascope of wet blood nocturne reek of spent lights of the dim forgotten as circus goes the razor roundelay the bones shattered till obsolete claim upon nothing ever of as was as if to nectar of silenced overtures of the membrane’s kiss upon stone nothingness bludgeoning the gait the shadow formed & frozen upon the wall as in the mirror gazes inwardly into where to final is to lack all manner of which obscure as if to to echo drift what dim in viscid irredeem weightless travail in specious ever as before as dead alone for all time a tidal wasteage of ever of till scarred without longing skinned of ever after all turning from the electrical cable frenzy of scattered orchids
It had been approximately twenty-two weeks since Johann had left his room, to the dismay of absolutely no one around him. In fact, even those not around him, those in the general public, the masses, as you might say, were completely unmoved by his anti-social feat. Seemingly no one had took note of Johann’s disappearance besides Johann himself, and yet to Johann and to Johann himself, his recoil from the outside, his so-called “disappearance” was experienced, rather as an appearance of something wholly new, a debut of sorts, an entrance into a new world. It had helped immensely that Johann had already possessed a room before his vanishing; he stalked its rectangular limits regularly from childhood and had developed the most keen mental map of the room. Johann, in the many folds of his brain, had formulated a perfect three-dimensional representation of the location of every corner of the room. In his mind’s eye he saw corner one, located to the left of corner two and directly above corner four, then corner two, to the right of corner one and above corner three, and then corner three, below corner two and to the right of corner four, and then corner four, diagonal from corner two, below corner one, and to the left of corner three. It was with this perfect, platonic representation of his environs that Johann had shed his mortal coils since he knew exactly where to place them (conically spiraled in corner three), and it was with this very same knowledge that Johann had set about traversing his room.
Not unlike an ocean, a room such as his—twenty square meters in size—represents a difficulty, a challenge, something to be overcome—at least, to the layman. Johann instead understood his room as an extension of his self, for what were these corners if not coordinates in his mind; what were these coordinates if not corners, and so on and so on. Johann knew the space before him presented him again and again with empty air, that is to say, with water, and, very quickly, Johann found himself drowning therein. Thus, if it were not for those four eternal corners, he’d be stuck forever at the bottom of his floor, somewhere between the oriental rug and a dirty sock, nearer to whichever of the two Neptune chose to keep him; and yet, it was in his ingenuity, in his incredulity, that Johann fashioned a ship.
Here the sound of windrush
garments flapping unmoving .
Slick granite unreal below the structure
this decal abyssal : its failure .
My ragdoll lock : my blinking features .
See the effort of me piling
up : see the mechanism at its limit .
The field wrong from this angle : lacking what .
Loss of dreams of stamina wheel not reeling .
Burning liminal : a shadow of a hinge :
a hallway unfinished in the medical complex .
The light on your back a texture away .
It makes her shudder to think of it now, when she walks past that austere Victorian Gothic mansion with its peaked roof, like the Dutch girl’s hat on the can of kitchen cleanser. She used to see him in the big bay window when she walked by at night. He was sitting at his desk with his back to her, in a nicely tailored suit, and she remembered how his tanned hands made a tipi as he studied a case of law. His golden pageboy was curled under, touching the collar of his suit. It was like an Edward Hopper painting, this sexy lawyer sitting alone at a desk, lit by electric lights. Outside on the sidewalk, a young woman peers at him, her breath making a cloud in the gloom. He used to come into the basement nightclub where she worked.
The young woman, Deirdre, was right out of college. And she was still going through culture shock, adjusting to the thin, meager world of reality from the brainy environment she had been in for four years. Deirdre was working at that basement nightclub because she couldn’t find a job that required a college education, though she had applied also to the history museum. The Director, an anthropologist who had once spoken to her Anthro class at the college, told them to drop in anytime. But when she did, her staff gave her the bum’s rush and told her she needed an appointment. She didn’t go back. Waitressing just paid the bills. But the basement night club made such a vivid impression on her. Perhaps because she hated it.
She still had the matter of one incomplete grade at college, an independent study. Then she could graduate. The corpse was stinky and decomposed because it had not been preserved in formaldehyde. Keeping cool in the biology lab fridge when she wasn’t working on it, she dissected it under a ventilator hood because of the smell. It had been gutted for autopsy from this research institute near her college, where they did such things as deprive rhesus infants of their mothers and then discover, lo and behold, they were socially deficient. Actually she applied for a job there. Another job she didn’t get. She felt pretty bad for this monkey, that had bruises under its skin and never got to have any freedom. Plus she was a vegetarian at the time. She never did figure out how she was going to handle that job.
While at school, she had already dissected the musculoskeletal systems of that rhesus monkey. But she had yet to take it down to the bones and give it to the anthropology museum on campus, because that’s how she had designed the independent study course. She kept it out on her porch in the frozen Wisconsin winter. Deirdre did feel a kind of Nazi satisfaction in cutting off his penis. Of course he was dead and eviscerated when she got him, but still it was weird.
That idiotic doctor smiling down at me as if I am a Christmas leg of lamb ready to carve into my chest searching for a purse of gold and municipal bonds safely guarded by Margaret’s father cruel old bastard God Forgive me bribing me to marry his obnoxious daughter crying in the corridor afraid I might live and interrupt her carnality and bastardly children dear Lord I am sorry do not treat me harshly why did you plant this Covid-19 have I not suffered through years of archaic gospel and fanatic potbellied evangelists kill Margaret’s father or my bacchanal son not me or that incompetent surgeon ready to claim my wife’s loins along with her insurance oh Jesus remember I am sick I will die today spouting blood making nurses convulse with disgust splattering my fluids onto sterile white aprons disregarded in garbage cans as my flesh is shoved into an incinerator
knotted hands grasping
at the sinewed cord
into a tentacle as you haul
the bucket up from the cistern,
a severed head bobbing
in the rancid water,
one eye plucked
by the hooked beak of a seabird.
drunken bell tolls
a hundred headaches,
clanging in the blood
muscles stiff, water
up to the ankles. tasks
pile up in heaps
like the salt-crusted debris
in the kitchen, stains
seeping down between
the unrepaired shingles.
through the night,
black as ink,
a blinding blade slicing
the rain apart and singing
deep within the ear, dull
as it is from the klaxon.
vise blares around your skull—
the shriek from the beach that echoes
throughout your dampest caverns,
consuming, confusing the senses—
seaweed, slime, the black rocks
slick with it, groping for a handhold.
the mind softens when trapped, isolated—
moreso in conjunction with astute manipulation.
soon there is no difference between the self,
the other, the nightmare, the fantasy.
wind gnashes its teeth
against the windowpane.
it still carries traces
of the inhuman scream that burst forth
from your mouth when
the radiance touched you,
melding with the voices
of the other departed,
their flesh having long been swallowed by the dirt.
they chorus when the wind changes,
the sudden absence of gulls
signaling the approaching storm.
Spore is an accurate simulation of the evolutionary process
earth shatters around me and I go on watching
my fragmented memories spin before my eyes like
an extra-large laundromat dryer. I call this one
the trauma cycle. it’s where the machine eats
your credit card and the centrifuge never stops spinning.
with each psychic impact I crawl further, more desperately,
away from my body, dissociation a phallic instrument
that cleaves my amygdala. fear now looks
as strange as I do; it is transformed into a cardboard cutout
of a feeling, just as my heart is now an urn filled with ash.
why ask to be lifted from this abyss—what is there
left to save. I become the martyr I have always imitated,
crucified at last. free. then the pin drops and I am
beaten back into myself, peering out from behind
the veil of madness with needles on my tongue. all this
and more just to climb out of the water
Bodies creep up the walls like radio signals. Limbs are coaxial transmitter-tendons that plug into the apartment ports and upload their regurgitating thoughts as packets of dying breath. The skyline is the harvester network where broadcast pylons intersect solid wavelength steel into the heads of people who haven’t removed their cerebrums entirely for printed flex-circuit social media analytic cyclers. Everything is branded by Gucci.
Because moonlight became corrupted by the Calvin Klein Lunar Reactor meltdown the night sky has been deplicated to expose the subcutaneous LEDs under its flesh (Chanel built them inside the sky’s body centuries ago, in the off chance our universe chose to hate us). Instead of projecting images these LEDs project new thoughts that mimic what it is like to stand in a forest and suffocate in the Milky Way radiance. Every thought can then be recycled to form new words (as lexemes are a non-renewable resource speech needs to be processed through IEEE-Supreme defanger servos that remove the teeth and let the gums bleed until you can’t eat without a drip feed of congealed morphophonemic stimulants; controlled language in place of the unpredictable). The energy for the LEDs is leeched directly from the sky’s nerves.
(None of these words have any meaning for you because you digested the meaning. You crawled into the recycling plant pipes to suckle on the flow yourself. You had no other choice but to starve. I don’t blame you.)
Kelly’s smile is lashed to her lips. She’s backed herself into every possible corner. Appearing like a shredded element on camera, leaked on lens, gravity has manhandled her. Nevertheless, she eroticizes the distance between her and things, existing better at one end of a phone. Distal as a talking cashew, she remembers Vicky’s challenge: “All this tomboy talk seems fishy.” Everyone else’s kids are gay. There are wilder ways to be robbed of an obsession than marrying your beard. Kelly wants to do an exercise montage on Vicky’s piggy face. Picking up her child-shaped court date, eyeing the teacher through a cracked window, Kelly instills the pins and needles gathered in her somewhere beyond temperature. She’s scratching out the ruins of another season with nail polish. “If I were you, I wouldn’t go within a mile of my lips.”
Futures Insectoid + Worm-like
the insects cannot cash
as long as my screen is cracked
+ my battery is so trash
hellgrammites cannot either
in this water
w/ tire + television
THE THREE GLASSES.
Was looking over a rubbish heap near a hotel. Saw three tumblers of dark-colored bottle-glass. Seeing they were not cracked, I thought they might be worth taking care of. As I was about to pick them up I was noticed by the landlord, who called to me that I had better not meddle with those three glasses; they had been used by a party of very dirty people and were more irredeemably befouled than I knew.
Was living in village, and in passing out of the door onto the sidewalk, stumbled against a neighbor who was passing. Knew him as an undertaker, Joseph Smith by name. Went into the back yard and had some talk with my mother about undertakers –– objected to being buried by a man named Joe Smith. Expected to need services of the kind in a few days. As I talked, I stood and combed down the nap of a shaggy cloak I had on with a coarse comb.
Angel-holic our killing MODE PARA:SITE attack resuming UROBOROS-like reptilian wreckage sodomy: puppet KARAKURI hallucinating fuckin’ Chinese 2020 ant wolf slaughter meme planet sperms deja-vu in Golden Street The hustle and bustle is infectious!? Misogynistic homeostasis REIGNITON the shagging cripple’s mg
GHOST IN THE SHELL 2049, Evangelion’s Kabukicho junkie “God does not exist yet,” “God will be born soon,” “the dead will be resurrected” Nihil Unbound, the ethics of extinction is OUTPUT to the angelic device in the style of protocol::0 extinction… Uber Eats: The ADAM Project.
It was a hot day. The earth was in a frenzy. Here in Hue, the wings of an angel are about to open. That’s why the world was as pale as the white guards at the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum in Hanoi.
Anger is deposited in my body, and this howl is so suited to the Phước Tích firing kiln that I feel like throwing myself into the Hương River. The Angel’s horn has been blown. There’s no turning back now, adieu. Someone has said that we are unretrieved, unleashed, bursting, debauched, unrecovered by anything. That’s what it means to live this one-time-only life
Remember when we were walking together under cherry blossom trees? Here in Vietnam, we don’t see cherry blossoms. Instead, there are bougainvillea and dahlia trees. The rococo style imperial mausoleum of Emperor Khải Ðịnh is in such bad taste that it would be meaningless to tell you about it. I was there with you. I wish it were easier to forget.
“It is common in the Orient to discover the inherent violence of ancient creatures,” said the narrator of a documentary. A woman struggled in a river at the bottom of a canyon. She remembered sleeping in a hotel with her grandmother, who was also sent to the river, but drowned. Giant jellyfish and squid groped at her dangling legs. The tremendous size of these fauna was common in the Orient, as opposed to the West, from which the woman originated. Time did not pass normally in this region. She described her supernal calm during this situation.
A philosopher and his poet friend went to a bordello. It was hexagonal and built into the wall of an underground city. The prostitutes were arranged in a circle of sarcophagi. The philosopher slid back one of the lids, revealing a flat stone surface with an embossment of the prostitute’s nervous system, and fell upon it. He ran his fingers along the nerves and laughed that this was all there is. His poet friend urged him to leave. He said the cops were coming and they needed to run. The philosopher couldn’t stop laughing. Later, it was heard the philosopher had disfigured his lover’s face with a hammer and disappeared.
I found a paperback novel on my shelf. It was a classic science fiction tale about the aggression of ancient creatures. The cover was a drawing of a gigantic ape in a pickelhaube battling several men with a spear. I had seen it before, but still not opened it. I seemed to remember much of its narrative, which appeared before my closed eyes in a series of moonlit vignettes.
I was restless through the night. With each dream I went deeper into the underground city. The walls were blotched silver, dark green, and black. The demons of each realm grew more and more obscure. Their forms of torture were ordered according to the hierarchy of esoteric bodies. The first realm was physical, the second emotional, and the third aetheric. These spiritual tortures were the most terrible to me. They were indistinguishable from waking realities, sometimes taking the form of lifespans without memory. They consisted of perverting the subject’s higher intuition. The capacity to project into the future was tied and stitched as in a sterilizing operation. This was performed by the mind of a primordial spirit immured in the depths of a silent lake. I came to know a strange solace in this deprivation by which the demons reconciled to their existence.
I was taken to a secret chamber rented by a criminal organization that belonged to the world of the invisible. They showed me a sickly-green aquarium that housed a sessile organism growing along a slanted surface. It resembled a cephalopod and had been imported supposedly from outer space. The digestive system was mostly external. I learned that to be fed to this creature was the highest form of execution by the organization. The organism excreted a chemical that paralyzed the victim but allowed them to continue breathing underwater. It would be placed facing outwards so that members of the organization could look into its eyes during the process. The mode of digestion was mysterious to me. The organism released objects like marbles from tubular appendages on both sides of its body that rolled down grooves and aided in dissolving its prey. It would be pulled in half from the middle of its skull to its pelvis over a matter of weeks. The victim would be hypnagogic for the majority of this time. Terror, pain, and incomprehension could be read in its face, even as it was split in two. I stared into the eyes of a poor soul whose gender and expression were no longer recognizable, being near complete disintegration. I woke with a familiar nausea that used to make me think I had swallowed a bug in my sleep when I was a kid.