Each scratch at his back peels the cauterized skin up over itself. The flakes fall, lifelessly to the hardwood floor where they'll be swept up with lint, pubic fuzz, and deposits of God knows what. A man named Raj once told him that it wasn't good to write in the first person. He said nobody cared enough. Third person is confusing, but keeps readers at an "interested" distance. Away, far away from the involving mechanisms of the mind. The sense implied by "mind" suggests that it is a location rather than an object or device. Thinking as a pastime, or scratching as prosperity? The flakes continue to float. His “teres minor” experiences subtle throe just as the “humeri's head” clicks into place.
Females of sun soaken faces pondered at what had occurred. Why had his back gone completely red? No one could tell by the looks they had given. More importantly than not, his phone glowed when he smiled. Muck from the tube had laid in him, but the length of his palms were burning for blood. He woke up days after. His tee shirt stank of cigarettes and women. It didn’t quite pull over, but he saw through it.
Christopher Uller
