It’s three times as big as normal. It’s a lesion, a soiled sheet. It is tired, stuffed with cotton, like a pillow. Standing at the counter, shoveling food inside its mouth, staring straight ahead, like a cow. Do we really have no guide here? Something has gone wrong. The source of illness like the source of a river. The introduction of a foreign object of ill will. It smokes. It reeks. It gets too riled up. The beginning of it, not necessarily in order. The spirit is fickle and will abandon you like a flock, a sesquipedalian wave of wings on the horizon. The altars you have built, to the dead, in front of ferns, will, in the end, be just a body to the doctors. Even if you perfume it. Even if you pray. There are hours you won’t be able to account for. You will disappear, heatedly. The rooms will be cold. They will make you sick before they make you healthy.

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