He wakes up naked in bed, in tears, spit and vomit drying on his chest. Between his legs is a searing pain that stabs white hot flames up and down his torso. The blanket, soaked with blood and piss and shit, is a map of murders slowly taking shape, new territories forming by the second, discovered, conquered, paved over and rediscovered, terror firma incognita. Bluebottle flies, slow and bloated, populate the landscape in their busy colonies. He tries to move his legs.
