picking cichorium

The only thing I truly meant was when I slapped her.
She greedily bit her nails for hours and hours. Her lips, dry scales, bled. It was much simpler inside her chest: a fluttering fly on the window glass. Going to the hospital was out of question.
“You are an idiot,” i said.
“I’m scared.”
“I know. Anything else?” I remember I was very sleepy.

Maja ran to me. When she left the next morning, she left for half a year. I would have done the same: sick people are boring. “They must have sewn it badly or something,” I repeated over and over sitting alone, “it is just the stitching, it should soon dissolve.” After the resourcefulness of self-deception finally stopped working, still anesthetized and immobilized a year later, all I wanted was to grow indifferent. Now, I think the previous one was actually eaten, nobody fancied repairing anything. Thus the new, the mechanic one, cannot be risked. Though who would want to eat that?

Mechanized witches are no rocket science. They become the keepers of the archaic tradition – picking cichorium.

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pink floyd goes along with this story