The featherless hatchling of some baby bird was crawling under the skin of my right arm. I could see the bulge of its beak as it crept steadily toward the elbow joint. Somehow, I simply knew that it was a just-hatched – or really never-hatched – baby bird, and could envision the rest of it, though it was only the beak that was visible, bulging up through the skin. It frightened me; I couldn’t stop its progress, though I pressed down on the skin and muscle of my forearm, as if that might convince it to stop. Should I smash the creature? Should I break its fragile beak? I wasn’t sure that I could even do so if I tried, though it seemed perhaps possible. But I was worried about then having the corpse of this young, and never-even-properly-born, creature still stuck in my arm, having no way to get it out. I knew besides that it was already dead; that this could in no way be a live baby bird, but more like an unborn embryo, its egg prematurely cracked. Yet it crept along incessantly, apparently very strong. I tried alternately ignoring it – though I could feel it crawling in there – and then to block its progress, squeezing my arm, but I stopped short of actually trying to crush the bird. Still, it crept along, indifferent to my efforts, making its inexorable way up toward my shoulder.
[for synth, electric guitar}
boligrafo