Dr. Folcus Eupnoi

1 week ago

@epitheliumTombstone[ET]

༒︎he books never do a real body jus♱ice. ༒︎he illus♱ra♱ions are always so very uniform and uninspired. Real bodies are so much more brea♱h♱aking. Every ♱roll is differen♱, from ♱he inside ♱o ♱he ou♱side. And ye♱ wi♱h every incision, I find ♱heir carapace, course and ragged, ca♱ching agains♱ my blade, playfully ♱rying ♱o snag ♱he ♱ool from my hands. A pool of vivid blood beads a♱ ♱he en♱rance, and all I can do is s♱are a♱ i♱ in a ♱rance un♱il ♱he incompe♱en♱ nurse finally swipes ♱he puddle away. And finally, I can probe deeper. Various shades of ♱heir color s♱reak across ♱heir mea♱, marbled wi♱h fa♱ and sinew and muscle, displaying a beau♱iful swirling mess of ♱heir own hue. Some♱imes I ♱hink I would forge♱ ♱he ♱roll's na♱ural shade, if i♱ weren'♱ for ♱he na♱ural color leaking from ♱heir veins. ༒︎he innards pulse under my blade, wai♱ing ♱o mee♱ ♱he ♱ip of my scalpel like an old friend... Bu♱ ♱hey mus♱ wai♱ ♱heir ♱urn. ༒︎he mea♱ is no♱ of♱en my objec♱ive. No, benea♱h ♱he surface layers is where ♱he mos♱ s♱unning spec♱acle lies. ༒︎he en♱ire life of a ♱roll. ༒︎heir ins♱inc♱, ♱heir blood, ♱heir was♱e, all con♱ained in a handful of lovely, incognizan♱ sacks of fluid and flesh. Well-oiled gears and conveyors nes♱led ♱oge♱her in ♱he world's mos♱ efficien♱ machine. Working ♱oge♱her, hand in pulpy hand, ♱o ensure your survival. Like a rainbow of collabora♱ion inside every living being. A brigh♱, malfunc♱ioning ligh♱ suddenly ca♱ches my a♱♱en♱ion. My blade dances a♱ ♱he source. Dissonance in ♱he melody. I♱ ♱hrobs harshly agains♱ i♱s companions, disrup♱ing a careful, billion-sweeps long harmony. And oh, how *spec♱acular* a display. How very ♱rollish, so very habi♱ual. Perfec♱ion simply canno♱ be achieved in a living being-- even wi♱hin your own body. I♱ really is a shame ♱ha♱ I have ♱o remove i♱. I wish I could le♱ i♱ fes♱er. I wan♱ ♱o wa♱ch in real ♱ime as i♱ corrup♱s ♱he res♱ of ♱he body ♱urns ♱he sys♱em in♱o a wil♱ed pile of de♱ri♱us. I wan♱ ♱o see wha♱ happens ♱o ♱he machine when ♱he ligh♱s ♱urn off. Unfor♱una♱ely, I am bound by my con♱rac♱ and my vow. And I mus♱ ex♱rac♱ ♱he mas♱erpiece a♱ once. S♱ill, even in i♱s resis♱ance i♱ shows i♱s beau♱y. I♱ clings ♱o i♱s hos♱ despera♱ely. I♱ s♱ill longs for life, even in i♱s de♱eriora♱ed s♱a♱e. I♱ cries i♱'s farewell ♱o i♱s friends, and ♱he body weeps in ♱urn, knowing ♱ha♱ i♱ will never be ♱he same. ... I may have gone off ♱opic a li♱♱le bi♱. Bu♱ my poin♱ s♱ill s♱ands. ༒︎hey do no♱ cap♱ure ♱he alluremen♱ of flesh well enough in ana♱omy books.