There had he planted himself again, hinged on the seemingly volatile panel of anything simply called dust, he was embedded in a nebula of torpor. Only his pupils stood sharp in their zeal and molded a rusty stick to draw a honeycomb pattern on the young porcelain flesh. The capricious lump awaited these repasts zestfully. He knew it. He had evidence. Her pellucid skin of various hues; scarlet, byzantium, white, brown, would take on a soft pink as he hustled into the murky room lit up by her. She adored him for sure. And, once again, she would receive the liturgical effluence of all that his existence bore.
Her slimy white ellipses pressed the aimless light brown circles, which flickered at his frizzling but monochromatic appearance, slightly upwards and intricate threads of a voluptuous scarlet meandered across them. How athirst she was, for his favourite game! He crooked the tip of his stick, pulled the threads out and rubbed them into a loop. A few sparks splattered out and produced a triangular beam screening the familiar scene in which he masochistically played his practiced part of pursuing a red thread as attentively as a cat. Exulting in this professional spry, he crawled straight through a narrow aisle (perhaps a pipe, as he was too preoccupied with, rather hypnotized by, the thread to perceive their surroundings) and, tilting himself slightly rightwards, passed through a groove or door. The floor was so eelie that he couldn't tell whether he was crawling, being pulled by an invisible hand of the thread or flowing, All he knew was that he had to see the end that attracted him so powerfully. Leaving behind a trail of saliva, he reached two white hands with eight long fingers meticulously rewinding a glass bobbin and brushing against a pair of succulent breasts and, apparently, under scrutiny sustained by a seemingly painful posture. So beautiful were these nimble but deficient hands, that he wanted to touch, feel, relish them and perhaps even go further in his gluttonous quest but he couldn't help ordering his ravenous spine to erect itself to catch a glimpse of her countenance. The pestering features, however, before he could see them, were melting and dripping, leaving behind a thin malformed glass reflecting the image of a monstrous maggot coiling itself up. Those white hands lost the remaining fingers which crumbled down onto the body of the beast, dropping the glass bobbin which shattered into lonely bits of sharp crystal.
The scarlet threads were shot back into their places forcing the beam into a vanishing point. The girl was no different than yesterday or the day before just as the sequence or hour of the events. Maybe she had been more animated, even effervescent a few months or millenia ago, but now she was quiet and coy. When he was out of the room and inside anywhere, (as she had once managed to consider, a 'where', for her place was rather psychedelic, being claustrophobic but with no rigidity, would be anything but the room and its likes) she would be lost in the pinks, as far as the accumulated and forgotten details of her concepts let her. The very few and gradually lost mundanities of the room had once been observed or not. Any numb and humane act in this room found itself inconspicuous in routines that took place by themselves, like dew on grass. The blinding reverie stood aside only for him and his passionate litanies.
The end of this lucid episode or trip to another dimension fed the corpuscle of curious exasperation in him and mitotically divided to take control of his phlegmatic muscles. He trotted about, clutched the girl from her two long sticks to turn her backwards and perched himself on her waist. Dancing above the girl, waving his hands, tapping his feet and letting out quite howls, he mottled his muppet's stryofoam limbs, intuitively drawing shapes, animals and pretty reproductions of the girl's body itself. How pretty she looked now! She would bear another child to grow up somewhere out of consciousness. He left the room smacking his fleshy lips and leaving the recollection of the girl behind until the captivating signals of his next hunger.
