My mind runs in loops and hollows. Everything looks as though I'm seeing it through the cracked lid to my crock-pot, pink and crumbling. I've been standing in this shower, surrounded by walls of plastic and tile, water cascading over sunken shoulders. The weight is immense, circling like a vulture over a rotted carcass. I slide down the mildew infested tile onto a dingy floor of the bathtub. There's a perpetual ring of hair and dirt browning the walls of the tub. I stare into the nothingness of the tiles, looking through them into the room beyond. Water pours in translucent lines down, over mounds of flesh, swimming in creeks down into a triangle of pubis. Ah, the comfort of water. Sanctity. Clarity.
