I want to eat the fuzzy black gristle out of my extractor fan, get a pair of eggshell-black fibreglass Marunao chopsticks and a stepladder and tweezer it out like a gnarly, furry Nik Nak.
You know how iron filings cluster on a magnet in science, and you want to trough your face into the bristly writhing mess of it.
Like that.
Or the nugs of chest hair that build up in the teeth of your body comb, yeah? And the bin is all the way on the other side of the room and you think, well if cats can deal with it surely I can.
You know a stone that's been weathered into a perfectly smooth egg of quartz and sits in your hand with the weight of all guffing nature's designs enscrawled across its prow and flanks, and you know if you just popped it into your mouth it would be so cold and heavy and real, like going to church when you were a kid and sitting there in the creaking, musty, ultra-varnished old pews, trying to feel this weightless power that you knew wasn't really there but you wanted so badly to feel protected by something in your life.
Sucking stones, faith.
Smell of deteriorating prayer books.
You could duck down under the hymn shelf and what if you had a little taste of one of the rotting dusty hassocks, just bit into one like it was a big parish mallow, the cheap fabric squeaking on your teeth, your tongue pushing through a small hole bored by moth and into the slightly rotten foam innards.
And of course, with the stone in your mouth, the usual desire to bite down as hard as possible, to fuck teeth and shrapnel enamel, hot ferric blood sauce. One socket with little roots hanging down like jellyfish legs. Want to smash my teeth out and swallow them eat a butterfly chrysalis feel pinched nerves shrieking together like hungry baby birds something real some weightless power that means any of this matters
