I want to forget everything. I stood near and licked the quicksand.
Nothing has any taste.
It's so cold in here. We were brothers, a drip of crimson on a growing crimson bulb. Now, the blood is sterile and sharp, my breath is pained and toothed, and my memory is a frigid froth, bursting apart at the biting steel. I can't feel the pain anymore. By the old rope tree I've swayed back and back again, once for one sore toe casting lonely shadows, spinning and receding, once for drunken dreams and the idle haze, once for wilderness, and once for forgetfulness.