Bands of green and blue, little rippling waves. And, may I say, a feather, of diseased appearance. The diseased head of a man. Who gave me the whooping ’flu, you swine? Is that a dog talking? Have we come to this? Take me to the cliff, and drop me there. Let me fall through space, and so become alive. Dolls and ghosts and dogs, daddy and mummy bears, gorillas, pigs and mice and all the hybrids in between. Breeding in a tight corner, sounds almost hooman. I ain’t scared of the sea, but it’s a container for everything I don’t like to think about, such as buttons and cotton buds. When the bottles rattle, they remind me of bones. This is nothing. This is neither fiction nor poetry, we couldn’t market it.

(from Bardo. More from Bardo here)