The grip of every last computer driven by the coalescing scent of punchout silicone. I am guarded. I know it. You know it. So why belay the righteous fact of life in which we pull asunder our recognition of the world we live in?
Curly hair bounces in the seam, creating gelatin-mold people shapes that writhe and languish under burning friction from the rubbing together of thighs that swell under the pull of stretchy jeans. Here’s the man unwound, the threadboy strung along the side of zipline mountains yanked into spaghettification by the cooperative forces of gravity and upper body weakness.
He twists and lifts, the hand coming over the cable, the palm rubbing raw at 60 MPH twizzler-curls in the titanium braid. When it gets to bone the palm combusts into another future dictated by the lines the pain creates. Open mouths yell and scream for him. The skin peels from the inner-elbow, flaying the whole arm to reveal a red-twitch fiber beanpole that scrambles on a rotting joint.