4 minutes 35 seconds| “This was, however, the love of an amnesiac who strays into familiarity, and somewhere beneath the half-unbuttoned camisole and array of elastic bands that tied her off on both ends, an erotic impulse flirted with the sundry; and what was intended to jar loose animal memory became, through no willful plan, a proverbial whole lost in the sum of its parts: inguinal wrinkle, femur dimple, pubic wrinkle, abdominal crease, mammary crease, median lumbar dimple, lateral lumbar dimple, gluteus crease, welt, blister, vaccination scar…” ~from my novel in progress.
Time stamp 11/07/09.
Novel-in-Progress, excerpt 38| Lowell eventually finds David in the hospital:
The hypochondriac (preadventure this judgment was harsh in the circumstance) was unconscious and hooked up to an electroencephalograph; heartening brainwaves appeared on the screen.
This interval in happening upon him permitted study of incongruent features of the room: Crepe paper turkeys and pilgrims taped to walls properly identified the month as November, just as their crude execution identified their fabricators as children. Lowell broached a relevant subject with himself: Was this the only bed to spare? The only place to fit David into the alphabet correctly?
A lack of muscular incandescence did little to dissuade moths, as their number had increased. Those not fluttering about appeared fastened, like so many sconces and planters, to drab, ulcerated walls: The crepuscular light smeared their bodies into their shadows, not only making them appear scabrous but also doubled in size.
The air was unwholesomely warm, and clung to the skin with the stillness and humidity of outdoors. The visitor turned to seek medical personnel and information, but, as he did so, David’s hand shot up and latched onto his forearm.
“Did you see Jesus on your way in?” the patient asked urgently.
Lowell humored the medicated friend, nodding.
David relayed his alarm. “This is an animal hospital, I fear.”
The visitor corrected the impression. “This is a children’s ward. Look at the size of the empty beds.”
“No, no,” mumbled the scared man. “Those beds are for four-legged patients. Four-legged and sometimes two-legged...”
Lowell followed his friend’s worried stare: One other adult-sized bed, also unoccupied, sat in the most tenebrous corner of the room.
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