There’s a vast expanse. She’s in the vast expanse. Much peat. Many rocks. Miles of swirling nothingness echoing in two porcelain eardrums driven to distraction by aimless humming. There are titillating thoughts one tries to keep to oneself. Thoughts of a dead kid whose final visions consist of a mouthful of fillings belonging to a monolithic Glaswegian with bruised hands and marble eyes. Thoughts of the bulge in his trousers, too, and whether or not he’s as good with it as he is his fists. In the pocket of his blazer, images of flowering sex spread across a page torn from a dirty magazine. Got it from a box in a hole. The hole was covered by a rug in a garden. The garden was overgrown the same way her sex is overgrown, but really, she’s more like a girl than she is a woman. Her pubes as centipedes. Her navel blacker than acedia’s deepest ravine, with a tight little anus leading to a heart that shivers whenever someone comes knocking at its door. A well-thumbed paperback told me so, it told me so because that’s what books do—even the bad ones. The rings around her nipples are mountainous. Irish mountains. Made that way by nature and bombs and the bubbles in coffee that swirl like dreams in a dreamy head spouting drunken shit in a bar down by the river. The river is narrow, thin like a delicate strand of hair plucked from the head of a knowing brunette. All brunettes are knowing, but not all of them know. The good ones sing and finger the sky for clues on how this all came about; the bad ones write awful poetry and pin it to their fridges. When drunk, I piss against the wind thinking of all the people I’ve known who are now dead. I masturbate to Zapruder’s assassination film, but it’s not JFK’s head being blown off that does it for me, it’s the mystery of the Babushka Lady. From whose womb was she birthed, how many men did she blow, and was it the fire that consumed her, or the worms? Not much of a choice, is it? You either burn or get eaten on your way to hell. If I could, I’d be shot into space. Back into God’s womb I’d go—no blood, guts or decomposition, just an easy punt into the heart of it all. Forever unblemished. Forever unwell. The pages are discoloured; distorted like memory. Some are even missing. I’ll never know those women, in the same way I’ll never know myself.