Retrospective in Occupied
BTC 15: Sweating the small stuff
Pockets full of pressure explode only a half hour into and under the mask. Eyeballs leak out bulbs in the expansion of air as the dripping sweat captures in the nose. A quick stick of tissue works well in sopping up the drip. A fix that does little in rubbing the bridge any way wrong.
Downing a hot dog lathered in what they bottle as mustard brings up a wooden smell under the breath. An industrious felled odour ripe of nose and burning chicory essence.
Logic states that the taste of the sweat would therefore contain even a trace amount of the flavouring. And yet, it does not. Only a blank wink, slightly cold to the tongue.
An extended relevance behind the guise puts the life of the plastic face into five months and counting with more at least until the Fifth of November.
Soon Van - Friday, August 11, 2006 - 22:26
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