Pulp of the Sea

That feeling when you wake up with the delirium tremens with the fear of eerie death dripping from your ears like those special heavy cobwebs spiders weave in the hot countries, the feeling of being a bentback mudman monster groaning underground in hot steaming mud pulling a long hot burden nowhere, the feeling of standing ankle deep in hot boiled pork blood, ugh, of being up to your waist in a giant pan of greasy brown dishwater not a trace of suds left—The face of yourself you see in the mirror with it’s expression of unbearable anguish so hagged and awful with sorrow you can’t even cry for a thing so ugly, so lost, no connection whatever with early perfection