My eloquence slips when I open my mouth, and when the waiting room colour coordination dies a small death, when I try to paste sentences together in non-audible word format. That thing. Writing. That most beautiful thing with octopus tentacles, and padlocks to the deeper suction recesses. The automated screen had acknowledged my visit, much as the receptionists acknowledged common patient complaints by attaching a large laminated sheet of paper to the notice board reading DUE TO PATIENT SAFETY WE WILL NOT BE INSTALLING A WATER DISPENSER.
The reason for my visit was headspace primarily, with small explosions of violent twitching and violet violets. I tried to describe the general malaise associated with being alive and made my way home with mostly nothing, save for a hilarious leaflet on how sex is exercise, and diabetics should eat lots of chips before engaging in such dreadful activities. I later lost the leaflet trying to impress a stranger on a train filled with diabetics and chips, but the otherwise totality of nothing left my bloodstream empty, and had my intestines burst from my mouth as they had when an unctuous adolescent screamed a single sentence into my face. Grabbing me by the lapels and pushing my knees to the concrete outside of Primark, he might have been discontented by the nationwide lack of chips, to be fairrrr.
Because it was intentional, attention-seeking, nonchalant, metaphysical. Widespread by choice and not circumstance, painless and controllable, Polyfilla injected into your gums for the purposes of friendship and fashionable hysteria. My vision swam at the regrettable pastel green hue of the walls and ceiling. Foetal, I laughed at your waist, and choked my intestines back into my stomach until I could taste blood and vomit, acidic and sweet, at the back of my throat. I bet you cut yourself. Eloquence personified.