collagen

The bar was elsewhere. I wasn't. I could pretend to visualise the bar with black lego blocks. I phoned the bar, and whoever answered the call sounded pixelated, like from a video game in the 90s. When he spoke his voice quantised into air sound as soon as he entered vowel sounds. I heard someone playing darts in the background. I imagined the pieces of lego being connected, disconnected, then connected again.

I woke up then. It was earlier than yesterday. I made a phonecall. I ran my credit out. I washed my face. I ate breakfast. I read the newspaper. I looked at the clock. I was going to be late. I was late. I ate lunch. I attempted to perform tasks. I looked at myself in the security tape. I looked out. I saw people gathering under shelter. I had to leave for home. I ate dinner. I ate cereal. I bought more credit. I made a phonecall. I ran my credit out. I ate cereal. I shaved. I washed my face. I watched a bug slow to death in the bath. I shat. I ate cereal. I ate peanuts. I ate. I listened. I heard. I couldn't see. I ate. I ate.

I entered the bar. I saw the light form in lego blocks on the corner. Someone older was playing darts. I bypassed the dartboard as a policeman entered the building. Walking out the back I ran into an old friend I couldn't remember the name of. We went into the male bathroom and sat, saying nothing for a moment. We heard sirens and hid the growing dozens and then hundreds of pipes inside skin-folds. The bar manager leapt over the top of the cubicle door. He saw the shattered glass and began to strike the old friend again, and again. I watched. I called the police. When the bar manager yelled, it sounded pixelated and frequently quantised into air. When I yelled, the bar manager and the old friend did not react. I left the cubicle. I ate a jar of peanuts. I ate another. I bled from my throat and bloated to nearly the size of the room. The phone rang. I answered the phone. I heard air.