The C43H68N12O12S2 Nightmare Made Flesh and Filbert

Drearily, I open my eyes. The world is different. Many pieces have shifted upon the board. The scratches, some of rust, others of blood, fight for territory amongst the spattered pools of oxytocin rich milk.
The ghost of an old dog, my old dog, myself, perhaps, washes its genitals whilst blocking out the sun. As though a phantasm of Goya had spread his brushes out for the first time in one hundred and eighty-five years. The glow from his candle hat preserving the night as shelter against the bitter cold chimeras of a shattered mind.
Those salmon, Francisco…They are more real than the one I just ate; than the millions in the sea, than my own heart beat.
A sandstorm engulfs the dog, leaving his gigantic (the dead are one hundred times larger without life) head poking out of a fresh, mountainous sand dune; at the foot of which cigarette butts multiply with my consternation, like flies to a leaking cadaver.

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