Traumroman No. 2

I dreamt he was so totally apathetic that he'd taken to self-mutilation, he was looming in the abstract architecture of the dream dimension imposing, aggressive as a cliff-face daring a jumper to actually manifest their delusion. I noticed his wrist was utterly cleaved of skin, just a pre-rancid band of mangled, shimmering gristle about four inches wide. He was smoking, and had, I gather, dosed himself to obliteration on morphine and thus, was so totally apathetic that he'd taken to self-mutilation and had carved an entirety of skin off of his chest with the primary intention of witnessing his heartbeat perhaps out of a thirst for emotional validation, all that remained was a cemetery of ribs, sour shapeless flesh, and a void wherein lay his rotten yellow heart emitting a pulse rather than a beat. He was talking in perfect coherence, and smoking. Whilst snug within this phantasmaGORE-ia sickened by the stink of present rancid, shapeless gristle framed by the bland gestures of a boy oblivious to his body-as-wound, revulsion kicked in with profound weight, my head sharply twitching, seeking visual solace from the babbling gore, until the religion of discipline founda fresh fervour in my heart, and out of thirst for emotional validation I steered, willed my head into confrontational alignment with the gore and stared mesmerised, proud at the pulsing cork of flesh squatted deep in his creaking cage, and his babbling ceased. Why wouldn't I want to watch a boy's heartbeat empty of the censorial viscera of skin and muscle?