There was a relief that exited through Guy’s pores shooting out fireworks of flesh, a celebration of no longer bearing the responsibility of decision. All requests for movements must now be submitted to the feet for a period of review before approval or dismissal but the offices in charge were gangrened, set to be demolished, ground up, mixed with other organic agents and sold as instant concrete mix to fit and fashion smooth steps along the pot-hole laden path. There was no use in fighting to change the course he was now on, so he took solace in his limp arched back body scanning the sky as the belly button served as the periscope for his eyes. The white heat took bow for the moment offering up a stone of shit comprised of fiber collected from a lifetime pressed firmly together. Rolled into a ball growing tighter until it was dense as granite. The stone started squawking, cawing out to other stones across nil neighborhoods with no response. Each caw reverberated spherically in Guy’s belly a few times before piercing the periscope in his button and amplifying it out towards infinity. It cawed fervently, crying out for recognition yet found nothing. Not a pebble of a reply.

The octopus disengaged from its inhabitation atop the cranium, straightening all 8 of its tentacles and pushed down up towards the sky. The moon hid in the clouds but the octopus craved its tidal mother’s embrace, propelling itself higher on nothing but stale air. The ebb of suction cups raising to the clouds straightened Guy’s posture, turning him upright once more to gaze the nothingness that lay ahead. Pupils constricted to the tungsten warmth laid out for him, adjusting from the change in cool to warm atmospheres in his eyes. Something had changed when nothing changed and Guy felt. Emotion washed over his being as an orgasmic gust of enthusiasm unfamiliar to him as it would be to a door post. Not acquainted with giddiness of any sort, he bubbled all at once, the chemical reaction starting first in the soles of his feet coursing its way up through the bodies plasma as magma spewing from the earthen crust. Sweltering red glowed in his throat quicker than his eyes could transfer the sight. A figure emerged into sight directly on the only pathway ahead. Either he appeared or he had always been there.

Only one way to find out.

Blisters popped in human form. Skin gurgled the thoughts Guy couldn’t think to himself. Before a thought could be brought to fruition a new pustule formed on skin, pulsating at first with anticipation of a needle but before it was able to swell with salty fluid it burst excitedly, gooing sticky slick puss down the skin of its host. Intrigued by the sickness formed in flesh on his own body, Guy began thinking about thinking for the sole purpose of watching new skin tents form and fall covering his entire body in that amber matter of blister pus that lie between the consistency of fluid and semen. He molted from the baptism of golden goo cocooning into a waxy dead chrysalis, then devouring the enclosure starting from what laid outside him, then moving inward.

He tasted himself with pleasure and the aristocracy of a gentleman dining on oysters. He knew he tasted like sour shit that lived in one’s bowels constipated for a full week, yet he could not stop picking his bodily scab, piece by piece, holding it up to the sun to peer through its tinted transparency, then placing the crusted eucharist onto his tongue up against his mouth’s roof to be slowly savored molting like pop rocks, cat piss flavored. He did this for the next 47 days, continuously until he stood naked and clean, sore pink from birth and stem celled fresh. Upon noticing his bare body, he spit out the last remaining scab, molded it between his forefingers first, then his palms, stretched it out into polyester mixed with canvas and stepped one leg at a time into his new jumpsuit. Once meant for work he guessed, now just as a covering, it was the only design he could think of.