excerpt from resolution.
The thought is fat and fuddled and it lolls about my throat and mouth but does not slip lip. It grows and shrinks and twists. My tongue is too thick and my lips are too swollen and though the words are little individuals they cannot escape. They squish and slide through tongue and teeth until they are a sticky mass of sludge; my voice stalled by this mouthful of fat filth. And the thought, my tongue, it flicks and flops like a fish on dry surface, three feet from the shore. It writhes with that same angry agony; the desperate plea of a failure when so close to vindication. It is frantic. It is pitiful.
And I am my tongue. I am my thoughts. Sticky, thick, frantic and pitiful. I want to go home.
