goodbye to good bodies
farewell to friendly limbs
o fuck
XVIIII
On the plane I was assigned the middle of three seats. I would have preferred the seat by the window so that I might have been able to look out at the clouds and think about what they would look like if they were painted in chocolate. But a morose child, a fume of a fellow, dangerously fragile, had taken the desired place. He fixed watery eyes on the ceiling of the plane, I hoped that he would redirect his tragic gaze out of the window when the plane took off and not squander the benefits afforded by his privileged seat. The child was so small and so young, I wondered if he would disappear while we flew over the Atlantic Ocean. Where would he go? Then I thought that there was no way that he could disappear just yet, that would happen later. I wondered if he was looking for a way to escape from the plane in case it crashed. He was surely afraid that the plane would crash.It must have been such morbid premonitions that caused him to look so morose and to direct his watery stare at the ceiling. I told him that planes only crash on very rare and isolated occasions and that he should not be afraid or morose, then I asked him if he liked chocolate, or if he liked paintings. The boy did not respond with words, but deemed it fit to cast glum, wilting eyes at me and to display a trembling lip before angling his body towards the window. Contorted as such, he looked even smaller than before.An enormous woman in an old-fashioned dress joined us shortly. The dress was dark blue and covered with a pattern of cryptic symbols. Her dress was very old, but I was unsure of whether she herself was old or only middle aged. Upon closer inspection, I saw that the yellow shapes adorning the old fashioned dress were tiny suns with stern faces. The woman was a horrifying sight to behold, she had gray hair that was explosive and frantic and burst out from her head like the tiny skeletons of sea creatures. I thought to myself, “It would be hell to have to go swimming, even just to take a dip, in that woman’s hair.” The terrible woman was overwhelmingly fat and also had a green eye that always looked towards the bridge of her nose.The other eye leered at the morose child. I wouldn’t tell a lie, comrades. As soon as the dreadful woman had seated herself, she leaned forward, looking over me, and leered at the child. The flight was very long and I felt compassion for the child, fearing that he might sink to an unspeakable nadir of moroseness if he became aware that the demented woman was leering with such vehemence. He must have been thinking, “Witches that leer are why planes crash.” I have once heard that piece of wisdom.Time scraped by gratingly, every minute raked me with its talons as it drifted away and the deranged woman continued her leering. The boy would surely perish if she continued to leer; heroically, like a chocolate painter, I endeavored to divert her attention and save the child. I asked her why her green eyeball was stuck in the corner of her eye and she said that it was because the green eyeball had fallen in love with the other eyeball (which was the color of cognac) and would try at all hours of the day to cast adoring glances at it. I told her that I was a chocolate painter and she said, “Yes!” After that I was quiet, quiet as a chocolate painter, and so was she. 
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