White Chocolate. Fog.
I fumble through my bag, mittened fingers ambling, trying to find the chocolate bought earlier to rid my mouth of this taste.

Sewage. Rotting bodies. A stranger's cum. A stranger's tongue. Where is the chocolate?

I wish I had a cigarette. I wished I smoked. My breath visible, even against the fog, cutting the cold, wants hot cancerous air to aid it's struggle. Carbon alone can't warm me. I want to burn my lungs, fry my esophagus. Even the taste the sick taste of eating leaves. Anything to rid my mouth of it's flavor.

Belgian streets, how did I get to Belgium, where is Belgium? I look around. Deserted. Grey. Midday empty grey. You can't see more than twenty meters any way. The streets are filled with abandoned bicycles. Dead soldiers. I feel raped standing here. My mouth a victim of putrid flavor. Strangely the experience wasn't that bad, the offending taste aside. And the smell.

The smell of a recently clean body stuffed into too many layers. The smell of a people who think deodorant is unnecessary. Destroys liberty; is an anachronism. I couldn't conceive of the smell of his skin. I wish he had smelled like shit or smoke or fire. There was something acrid and sweet in his smell. Think corpse. Think morgue, when the disinfectant has run out. Think puss filled boils - either just before or just after bursting. And yet we talk awkwardly knowing there is little to be said, little to say, motives concise and clean being delicately edged around like at the end of the earth about to fall off. Into that smell.

On to the floor. On the couch there was no smell. Walking into the room, down the long hallway crammed with bikes, there was no smell, no taste, no invasion, just the remnant of fog that slipped in with us. The conversation was charged and political each of us posing clear theories. America bad. Sorry. Liberalism good. Obvious.

I find the chocolate and my fingers forgo the comfort of mittens braving the coldest cold to scratch open the box, scrape off the foil and ply myself. I wish I had a raw onion.

We finish. Cum everywhere, panting violence, sitting on the floor. The whole time I had a song in my head I couldn't shake. A face in my mind. A face of a stranger. Not this one with the tongue. And the room and the smell. At first clumsy and aware of the otherness of this other, eventually I was overcome by trance and shot, with out the usual help of memories of others. Others who smell like coconut, or wine. Taste like salt and melon. I let go and so I find myself on Loststrasse, sucking white chocolate, entirely without metaphor.

After, we go back to talking. I need a piss. I always do and I wont brave taking my dick out in the cold. I'm led through the kitchen where I almost gag at the smell. As I had moments before with a hand full of his hot spunk. Oddly which was odorless. I gag. And go into the small bathroom. Dreaming of reprieve. The excitement is gone, I came. I am a sinner. I must piss.

The smell is stifling. Overwhelming. Like watching someone beat an animal to death with a piece of re-bar. Impossible and happening. I look up and find it. Mold. Brazen toxic mold. Dark patches like cow hide. Relentless. Bating me. Threatening to infect me like it had infected him. Possess my body and change my pleasant woody smell to that chemical death. To rot and poison. Cow-field-methane and polyurethane.

I look up and can't believe I let this mold into my mouth. Without force or fight. It came and stormed the walls of my pine fortress. Leaving you longing for an occupation of plague.

I look at the ceiling relieved as my stream makes it's way; fogging the cold mold of the room. I breathe out sweetness into the gloom. I want an onion. I want chocolate. I want to drink bleach cut with Malibu to clean out.

I leave and smell the smell on my skin. Is it phantom? Is it me, have I changed? Do I have the meth mouth now. Can it be rubbed from one to another. How far did his tongue reach into my mouth. Adam's apple? Beyond? Has my smell gone?

How long will I carry it with me?

Past Loststrasse? Through the fog?

Beyond. Beyond. Beyond.