Scales 029

Scales 029; summertime madness.

Warning; Scales is a serial body-horror and, at times, terrible terrain for the mind.

Summer in this part of the Southeastern United States, our fallen coastal empire, is not for the faint of heart. Even in the ‘before,’ before the ‘new normal,’ before what we now understand to be the end, it felt like it was all ending soon enough. 

Hell on earth, I believe, would be described in the same fashion akin to being fileted on hot stone—asphalt, more specifically— while holding a bag of horse piss under one’s nose. No demon necessary when a daily walkabout turns into a race against the oven timer in your head. You become intimately familiar with the feeling of braised organs. The sunburns that go from bad to horrible in a matter of minutes. The boils that form at the surface, pockets of suffering, sachet d’epices fill with venom, as your insides writhe in their pot. Slowly churning as the vapors grow more distilled, more viscous, and ever more vicious. 

Bless your heart. 

The dampness, the swampy undertow, that perforates our every step. Each layer of clothing is reduced to a moist “towelette” over every inch of skin. It does not abate. It is anything but inviting. 

Rain is the only comfort, truly.
 
Torrential downpours that can wash away even the most sinister of intentions on a scorching day. The rot, however, has not only set in, it has petrified. 

The summer leaves us with no choice but to travel at night. 

Wake up, time to die.