Reading

Reading

The pages on the book were moist in a dry sort of way. This, seemingly, is a contradiction, yet the moistness still dried off over time, while leaving the remnants of wetness in this ghastly desiccation, as if it was eviscerating the molecules of liquid on the spot and turning this damp organism inside out and on itself, collapsing like a cruel world, like a cruel pyramid on brave grave robbers who just wanted a good old fashioned loot on the Pharaoh’s temple, who just wanted a nice wank on the austere, anthropoid coffin until the lid swung open and liquids could be sprayed on the book of the dead, limbs shattered off, dry but moist limbs after years in the sarcophagus, after all the liquids preserved the limbs, held it together, these raiders would break the Ancient God of men to paper, would shake the ink from the pages, would deconstruct and recombine, regenerate human tissue, break jars of Sodium Carbonate mixed with Sodium Bicarbonate, break the jars of the organs, suck the resin from the brain cavity, steal the amulets from the wizened body, anger QEBEHSENUEF by fingering intestines and pulling them through the tomb like slaves pulled blocks over logs to build the very pyramid that is collapsing on your séance, exhort yourself as you unwrap what lies beneath the bandages…