Years later he had found a notebook in an old jacket. He didn’t know where it came from, or who had written inside. There was a familiarity with the words, but nothing he recognised.
He was older now, and sometimes he shook so badly he couldn’t move.
They had moved him to a place where people tended to him. He didn’t know who they were.
Sometimes the world felt colder, and the end drew a little nearer. He’d sketch words in the air but wouldn’t remember why.
When you brush your teeth, you spit out flies. Still living, they stumble in the dampness of your sink, saliva and stagnant tap water, slowly drowning.
The eggs are deep in your sinuses. The nymphs crawl and wriggle in your moist but vacant cavities, feeding themselves on the trace amounts of sugar that the bacteria in your phlegm produce. Whenever you breathe there are flies falling from your lips. They drop dead through your nose. When you sneeze, there are always fly corpses in the tissue. You find them encrusted in the corner of your eyes every morning.
When you sit still, you can feel the maggots moving ever so slightly.
You know that when you die they will keep living inside you and they will consume your flesh until there is nothing left.