Poor Tony

Time began to take on new aspects for him, now, as Withdrawal progressed. Time began to pass with sharp edges. Its passage in the dark or dim-lit stall was like time was being carried by a procession of ants, a gleaming red martial column of those militaristic red Southern-U.S. ants that build hideous tall boiling hills; and each vile gleaming ant wanted a minuscule little portion of Poor Tony’s flesh in compensation as it helped bear time slowly forward down the corridor of true Withdrawal.


But he had never truly really shivered until time’s cadences – jagged and cold and smelling oddly of deodorant – entered his body via several openings – cold the way only damp cold is cold – the phrase he’d had the gall to have imagined he understood was the phrase chilled to the bone – shard-studded columns of chill entering to fill his bones with ground glass, and he could hear his joints’ glassy crunch with every slightest shift of hunched position, time ambient and in the air and entering and exiting at will, coldly.


Time spread him and entered him roughly and had its way and left him again in the form of endless gushing liquid shit that he could not flush enough to keep up with. He spent the longest morbid time trying to fathom whence all the shit came from when he was ingesting nothing at all but Codinex Plus. Then at some point he realized: time had become the shit itself.

David Foster Wallace, IJ, p. 302, f

∞ • • • ∞


About tmabona

writer, reader [bolano, DW, bellow, deLillo], runner, badmintoneer
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