Back to yawning face red skin disease because it pleases the gods. He is rudder and harsh, hair tonic and cough drops. She is skull with skin pulled gently over it, false eyelashes and watery mascara caught in the rain stretched out over fields of black down winter coats now past their welcome, cocooned in cold grey city, never understanding modulation because someone needs to make you humid humid humid in here. I am tired hip socket joint laying down legs in fetal position left. Everything was done and tried before a million times because maybe it pleased the gods before tonight.
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Isn't it about time we held a serious inquiry into how you got so hung up on the crap of your childhood?
Flashback to something we had nearly forgotten about because the years are getting on now: Aspiring biological entity Pedro Edogawa doesn't know anything anymore and prolonged exposure to different time zones, never ending jet lag, extended periods of isolation, crowded narrow spaces, languages he can’t fully speak or read supplemented by a short list of phrases that get him through the day without any incident, spinning forward on purity café time hoping the staff has forgotten about him so he can stay forever, avoiding eye contact deliberately and instinctively, legs and feet always walking, always hurting, pretending he is invisible, just a fixed point of sensory input that glides through the tunnels and sidewalks of Tokyo3 like second hand smoke that no one seeks to pinpoint anymore, mixing in as it does with a light mist of human odor that is inescapable when he’s pressed flat against a door and window on the Doubutsu-sen with others like himself speeding backwards on tracks to a fixed series of destinations and transfers like this one right here.
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