Only 7 sleepless weeks have gone by at the dining table. She tears a new fruit lovingly and violently apart, saying we eat red, Pepe, little by little Pepe, hold the seeds. Unsure of when to spit, Pepe had harboured altogether fistfuls of them between his quiet cheeks for fear of resolving his ignorance – and the mess that comes with. Flowers now grow in his belly from the few accidentally pushed down the pipe. Pepe, mesmerised and repulsed by the ritual, finally spits.
The patient coagulated ruins take the shape of the cave that was his mouth, almost resembling the once pregnant pomegranate
strange delight 