Gurgle

When his stomach started gurgling, and when it wouldn't stop, that's when he realized something had to be done. Not just about his pizza intake, which was substantial today, but of his intake in general. Of fats and sugars and salts and alcohols and the idea of women. Some pointed thought toward a peer, spoke generally against a class of people, sent halfway around the world, without understanding or even the barest attempt thereof. He was digging his own grave, surely, and slowly sitting down.

He could sit for a while in it, he supposed, but the second he started lying down that would be the end of it. He had to stand, he had to climb out, he had to throw down the shovel at least. He gurgles at himself, felt the grease on his fingers, ten awful mirrors.

Tomorrow was going to be a good day, he had nothing to do. But he could fill it with things, choices, new ones. Things fresh and crisp, well-researched and well-reasoned. Tomorrow would be the day he would begin at least to brush the dirt off, even if only from his hands.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, licking his fingers, spouting nonsense, going to bed.