A blotting occurred on the white ceiling as it began to shift into bright vortexes of light.
Lombard tried to sit, failed, and then slumped back down onto the soiled bed. That old oafish ghoul was back, the
one who threw a fishing line periodically inside his arm. It hit, split the
skin to the soul and extracted it out through tubular fingers hard.
Each tug of the line echoed along the diaphragm, trailing a path up towards the neck veins and directly into his brain. At this point it changed from being
a provincial corruption to something worse.
His skin felt like
melted butter. Nebulous flushes of deep-heat precipitated through each limb. All
actuality evaporated away in a single tipsy minute. Ears warmed up; the nose, the
lips, the extremities all tingled enticingly as they shifted across to another
reality.
Lombard tried to raise himself again. It was
all he could do during this episode to shrug
off the sickly draw
of unconsciousness.
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