You wake up. A sizzling feeling like being covered by: a swarm of ants whose feet are hot to the touch; painful punctual embers; a blanket of searing needles that pierces you; a cloud of static electricity that boils on the surface of your body and spills inside you.
You touch your entrails and feel carcasses once soft — then solidified — then, finally, liquified in a sultry viscous substance that sticks to your senses. Some parts of your insides are homogeneous and flow unimpeded in streams carrying humours and information; others are still raw, stuck, half-solid clumps of unprocessed matter that clumsily clamber inside this dark soup that is you.
The swarm of fire ants comes in waves, first in one part of you, then another. It concentrates its forces in different areas of your body, bringing an effervescence of vitalising inflammation. When it leaves, you touch your entrails again and discover the clumps are thinner and smaller; the flow smoother, more pleasurable and vigorous. These invisible armies of electroshocks are stitching you together.
They are not unaided, however. Above and below you there is a sweet pressure. A massive slab of rock pushes itself against you; like a lover's weight it stimulates mucous discharges that are your pleasure, your thoughts and your sensations. You bubble a reflection on your condition; you ooze your perception of textures and rough igneous minerals; you seep the pleasure of your own ongoing making-by-another. You were not before, you are not completely now — you must wait and surrender your self to the crushing pressure that heats and adores you.
You froth, offering almost no resistance to your torturing life-giver and love-maker. You silently cheer on the creatures that destroy and weaken that which is not you but is inside you.