Creative Writing, Momentary

The Poison, Drunk

They poured the intoxicants down their throats. White hot chemicals, cold to the touch but volcanic to the jugular. They noticed no changes as the sun went down, but when it had dissappeared so had their rationale.

In sweat the toxicity appeared to be leaving them alone. But really, the chemicals defied gravity, the chemicals splashed a bit around the brain, the chemicals justified going insane.

Temporality. Temperamental.

Occasionally one of them, one of them would drown. The chemical current would become more than a bit of splashing about the brain. Rather, it would pull the brain under, indefinitely.

Then it would have to be drained, people would come to drain the brain. To rescue the one who poured perhaps too much of the chemical intoxicants down its throat.

The people who would come would be qualified. They would look down on the one. The one, who would be covered in food from earlier that day and the acid that dissolved the food, the food they ate, would be lifeless. Noone knows where the soul goes in that time, but they would be lifeless; legs twisted to the side and bent at the knees, bloody perhaps; arms splayed out all over a street, with head unrecovered.
The one would need to be returned.  Recovery. Position.

The one might be lucky, facing the sea of Death and avoiding oblivion or the one might be unlucky and facing the sea of Death unsteady and falling fourth forever.

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