… ‘What now?’ … asked himself and looked around him in the darkness. He soon made the discovery that he could no longer move at all. He was not surprised at that. On the contrary, it struck him as unnatural that he had really been able up to this point to move around with these thin little legs. Besides he felt relatively content. True, he had pains throughout his entire body, but it seemed to him that they were gradually becoming weaker and weaker and would finally go away completely. The rotten apple in his back and the inflamed surrounding area, entirely covered with white dust, he hardly noticed. … From the window he witnessed the beginning of the general dawning outside. Then without willing it, his head sank all the way down, and from his nostrils flowed out weakly out his last breath. …
Franz Kafka, 1886
An organism that lives on or in a different kind of organism (host) and feeds off the latter. The parasite without its host usually dies. Because of its way of survival, the parasite undergoes drastic alterations (e.g.: disappearance of motor, sensory and other organs; enlargement of genital organs, creation of adhesive organs) resulting in irreversible specialization-mutation.
For the parasites, creating offspring acquires enormous dimensions as a counter measure to losses due to a lack of host. The host is always damaged, sometimes less, sometimes more, which might even lead to death. The parasitic populations facilitate in the spread of epidemics, and are one of the major factors in regulating the population of animals.
And then I saw her.
Tangled hair. Unsuspecting. White. Wet.
Where to came up?
Hidden in the foliage tracker breath, the heartbeat, shivering beneath the skin.
Inside the darkness her form became bigger.
At each step the trees pave her way whispered. Deafening. Inhuman. Lullaby.
What to tell her? She don’t see me.
Dropper as sudden shadow. I squeezed her with power on me. I stretched the backbone until the sweat evaporated.
All I wanted was to see her face. Those eyes that saw everything.
Be in their memories.
I left her behind in the soil. A body mine. I tasted blood and walked toward the voice that now familiar, booming and refined invited me to strength.
"It was me".
"That's her fault."
“THE CRIPPLE” IS PORNOGRAPHIC.
A RECORD OF DECONSTRUCTION AND MEMORY.
IT IS A CRISIS WITH SPASMS.
IT IS A PISSED SIDEWALK.
A BUCKET OF SHIT.
IT IS A DISTILLATION OF SUBSTANCE.
EXISTENCE AND RAILS.
IT IS AMPUTATED.
I WISH IT WERE MUSIC.
WRITING ON THE WALL.
THE BURNING TIP OF A CIGARETTE.