Friday, December 10, 2004

 

In the Belly

In the belly of the whale.

It’s big and pink. There are colorful ads popping up all over its ribcage, visible through the thin flesh of its stomach.

And the gut itself is full of bottles, clanking around amongst the fish and krill and circuitboards.

I mean, full.

Thousands of bottles.

I reach out and drag a few in the car. They’re all corked shut, rubbed smooth. Thrown into the ether at some point, I suppose, hoping to be found.

They’re full of old email messages.

Every last one contains an old email message.

Some are a few years old:

I will marry whoever finds this. Respond to…

Some are very old:

Jonah: This is Yahweh. Get your ass to Nineveh. Now. Preach to them. Or else. I’ve had enough of your shit.

I don’t know what to make of it, but I keep opening them and reading the notes...

If you find this, I am at a computer café in…

The whale is groaning and whistling.

It should be very hot in here, but it isn’t.

It’s ass-freezing cold.

"Turn on the heater, man," I beg. My fingers are turning blue.




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