Collusive Devolution: A litter hates the bitch that bred him. Volume II.

I isolated. That was a bad sign. Benign beginnings, staunchly huddled in fleece lined work pants, twisting in a dope down comforter. Coming forward, focus folding neatly like origami, calmly casing my next fix like this tourist town's native apex predator. With the hindsight that being only recently rested out to dry provides, I surmise, my incisors dripped in late June with a certain salivation. That frothy dementia steeped and stewed in predilection, stretched in every direction, crucified to the cross that we afflicted bear. Our pinned pupils belie ingrained integrity while our hands steal what our loved ones have worked for all their lives.
Gauge, length, volume. I knew that math would be the death of me and indefinably I found myself fixated with the prick that my recent conclusions regaled as the pinnacle. Red meant go, plunging deeply, wholly mired in the collusion that was the mainstay of those that were heretofore, only glanced at in my periphery. A tome of mystery opened to its resolution, and while I reveled in the devolution, I was ensconced in the degradation of its denouement.
There is a conductor on a steam train, but who feeds the boiler? If I knew his title, he'dve been there tending the furnace, metering the coal into the inferno. If I knew his name, I would've implored him personally to let the coals settle beneath the cusp of an uncontrollable conflagration. Things being as they are, the engine detonated on the floor of my shower. Where, curling like an ampersand, and splattered like an asterisk, I implored God to let me slither from the wreckage without being identified.
As the months pass I find solace in being one of the many people blessed to live. A derailed coupling that only defines me as a passenger, and not as sole survivor. Identified in interview as one out of many even though grievous injuries remain.