Fingers recoiling, fishing out the plug hole detritus.
The cumulation of impoverished seepage and ooze, circuiting the murky denseness of the deep-seated world of passages and plumbing.
Rotten and melancholy.
Malcolm.
A faint nostalgia of an exterior world propels him upwards. Writhing to break through the surface, ust enough to tantalise nostrils with a rancid embrace.
Albeit a disillusioned endeavour, for he only devises this realm’s disorientating and inhospitable nature. He retreats to the relief of the U- bend. Back to the pipes, back to contend with life’s dizzying, yet comforting, delicate swill. The familiar brush and caress of a rotten medley of residue amongst the flowing tendrils of this tender soul.
