(`. Goodnight .`)
Its been a shitty day. Im going to bed. Goodnight....
The clock had stopped ticking. The total absence of all sound was almost serene --almost. And then only for an instant. She was here.
Gregor dared not move. He dared not even tilt or lift his head to locate her. She was here though--he could almost feel Her. The thought of Her touch on his body sent a shiver down his spine--perhaps of excitement, more likely of repulsion. She was here all right, and there was nothing he could do to send Her away. She was here until the first rays of sunlight piecing the curtains would dispel Her.
Her. He didnt know who She was or whom She represented, and hed long since given up asking himself that question. She was just the daimonsomota--the demon corpse.
Was he in Her silent world, or had She brought her disquieting silence to his? He did not know. What he did know was that it was the silence of the grave--as would anyone who saw Her. He often wondered if others had, or whether he was the only one She cared to visit. He wondered if She was all his own. He had shared her once, albeit only in words. He had told Frieda about Her. She had laughed but knowing of his prized highly over-active imagination she had instantly dismissed it as a curious attempt to gain attention. He had said nothing more. She was all his own.
He could smell Her; that horrid stench of putrefaction that always hovered about Her. It turned his stomach over and over as it drifted to him and assailed his nostrils. He tried to hold his breath, but his lungs felt crushed. He tried to stop the picture of Her forming in his head but he could not do that either.
There She was, in all Her rotten glory: daimonsomota--the demon corpse.
The last time that he had seen Her, She had been much more decayed than before; Her left eye, suspended by the slightest of threads, had rolled out onto her cheek and, from a split that had torn open in Her leathery, orbicular stomach, a visceral rope lolled down between her legs in crude imitation of a gigantic, splanchnic penis. Her decomposition proceeded at a supernaturally retarded pace, but it did seem to be accelerating: It had certainly got worse since hed got shot of Frieda....
Excerpt from daimonsomota
~~~~ How to Navigate My Journal ~~~~
Its been a shitty day. Im going to bed. Goodnight....
The clock had stopped ticking. The total absence of all sound was almost serene --almost. And then only for an instant. She was here.
Gregor dared not move. He dared not even tilt or lift his head to locate her. She was here though--he could almost feel Her. The thought of Her touch on his body sent a shiver down his spine--perhaps of excitement, more likely of repulsion. She was here all right, and there was nothing he could do to send Her away. She was here until the first rays of sunlight piecing the curtains would dispel Her.
Her. He didnt know who She was or whom She represented, and hed long since given up asking himself that question. She was just the daimonsomota--the demon corpse.
Was he in Her silent world, or had She brought her disquieting silence to his? He did not know. What he did know was that it was the silence of the grave--as would anyone who saw Her. He often wondered if others had, or whether he was the only one She cared to visit. He wondered if She was all his own. He had shared her once, albeit only in words. He had told Frieda about Her. She had laughed but knowing of his prized highly over-active imagination she had instantly dismissed it as a curious attempt to gain attention. He had said nothing more. She was all his own.
He could smell Her; that horrid stench of putrefaction that always hovered about Her. It turned his stomach over and over as it drifted to him and assailed his nostrils. He tried to hold his breath, but his lungs felt crushed. He tried to stop the picture of Her forming in his head but he could not do that either.
There She was, in all Her rotten glory: daimonsomota--the demon corpse.
The last time that he had seen Her, She had been much more decayed than before; Her left eye, suspended by the slightest of threads, had rolled out onto her cheek and, from a split that had torn open in Her leathery, orbicular stomach, a visceral rope lolled down between her legs in crude imitation of a gigantic, splanchnic penis. Her decomposition proceeded at a supernaturally retarded pace, but it did seem to be accelerating: It had certainly got worse since hed got shot of Frieda....
Excerpt from daimonsomota
~~~~ How to Navigate My Journal ~~~~