Out of breath. Sandpaper tongue. In my chest, a wasp nest. I can’t feel my face.
Without blinking, sucking mouthfuls of nothing, a rattle and then another, piled against myself, the fattest fish in the bucket.
My hands tingle, searching in vain. Something itches. I try to scratch. I can’t reach, or I can’t find where the itch is.
My body is not me, it is an oppressed continent, a terra incognita, a region of indigence.
The pressure intensifies, one more turn of the clamp screw. I arch my spine, gravity paralyzes me.
I suspect I’m hanging upside down.
Mouth open, anticipating.
By Pablo Maurette for Éter
