Читать книгу Feebleminded - Ariana Harwicz - Страница 16

I go to sleep like I’m staring into the abyss before jumping. I’m being breastfed. A mental divorce from everything and I’m no longer in this big house between my mother’s legs, my mouth no longer sucking on her nipple. These old people aren’t my neighbours any more, and instead I’m ejaculating all alone in the tall fresh grass. There’s a roaring that doesn’t come any closer. And my hand is a melodic instrument that vibrates. I’m completely unaccustomed to society, too long spent watching the mornings go by like an old goat. Fetid teeth, rancid body, skin reeking of fried onion, bacteria, badly-healed pustules. A dog tied up too many times that now growls at the sight of a baby. I can come out in support of fascism, capital punishment, the burning of Gypsies. I don’t have to control my sphincter. I don’t say hello or thank you. I practise remaining immobile on thorns, being cruel to the homeless, I practise absolute silence. I lounge in my basement, my office. I lock myself in and I stink. Outside, the pine trees shine and the sun is tender. Outside, other people live under low ceilings like this one, piling up rubber boots and out-of-date canned food in their wine cellars. Outside, people spend their days slumped in rocking chairs, eating fruit from tins and snoring. And they have lives just like this one, the clammy pressure of a worm in our stomach.