Gertrude is weighing him down, weighing him down with her metal carcass. Her metal edges digging into his flesh. Metal edges that aren’t exactly sharp, but when a significant amount of weight lies behind those edges, those metal edges, well then, let’s just say that the edges take on a sharp feeling. A sharp texture. With one arm slung between rungs, he feels this sharp texture upon his shoulder. Gertrude has sharp rung edges.
Gertrude is a Ladder!
Far be it from me to fix a broken light in absolute vodka. Darkness is in the bottle… there is only darkness in there for me now. Sharp stomach acid. Well not exactly sharp. But when that acid, that stomach acid, lies outside of the stomach, it begins to, shall we say, take on a sharp feeling. Perhaps a texture? The light is fixed. Stomach lining – mucosal layering, all better dad, hope you can see well enough in the 12-lightbulb room. 12 fully operational, mucosal layer, light bulbs.
A library is at the stomach of the house!
Walking outside again. Step one, two – step one, two… is this thing on? Ah yes. I can feel the edges on my hand now. The hand of the man. Sharpening a ladder should be prohibited, but unfortunately this cruel practice continues on – slow march of death. Light is streaming out of the kitchen door. The light is yellow and it’s falling between the wooden slats of a railing quite beautifully. I think of Gerty in my hand. The yellow slices in the dark night fall to the ground without touching. Because they can’t. They will never touch. How could they?
Gee Gerty, if only you were a ladder made of golden light.