His I had burst to where his very name was a wound through which his flesh oozed pus. The lost sunny mornings of his childhood, now but a few tatters clinging to the roots, still produced an occasional flash, a hopeless appeal to reality, searing him from his eyes to his ears.
It now became clear that whoever conceived his bones wanted them to flower. From them would sprout the skin, the sky, the pageant of glory. But all this was no more than a bunch of desperate images bound together by memories at odds with the present and even with the past where they seemed to dwell, images that leaked at their edges, allowing forgetfulness to act on them like a species of sulfuric acid.
Each time it rushed in on him, the torrent of memories rose to such a height of consciousness that his very bones ceased being fixed and stable points he could hold on to. Dismantled, they ended up floating on the surface of the stormy waters, mixed up among his innards, with only his heart still apparently in place, as if inflating and keeping his other parts afloat among the grease and tumult of remembrances.