Imagine a fart so powerful it fractures your lower spine. This is my life. Abrupt and insensible. Accidental, forward momentum intended to relieve pain but which in fact pollinates the air with a portentous odor, of rot, of decay. Wittgenstein once said that everyone secretly enjoys the smell of their own farts, and I’m beginning to see his point. Not about farts and smells. But about the messes we make, which we tend to enjoy being in, or else why would we keep making them?
Written at 10:50 at night, in Hawaii.