Notes on Being Licked

plants

The world either sits silent or mumbles monologues. What sort of tongue is this? What sort of tongue is slithering into my ear, gliding along the shell and worming its way inside? It writhes between my brain fold, commits its indecencies, and I forget what I was thinking about. Right now, to put it mildly, I've got other things on my mind—there's a bloody tongue in my brain.

—Have some decency,—I whisper, clutching the armrests of my chair.—I don't even know you.

—Mmgh-hmm-uh-mm,—it mumbles ...