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Total War (A Note on Anorexia)

It begins in the most subtle of ways. Like the first hint of putrefaction or the feeling you get when sitting down to eat in a large house and somewhere in the most distant of rooms a small window has pushed ajar.


But from the trickle the torrent soon follows. “Der totale Krieg”.

The difference being you waterboard yourself. Butter is your napalm.

Is it sexual..?

No, not particularly. Though there is the aspect of preparing to be attractive, trying to unwind the architectural mystery of moving from one stillness to the next like a Venice bridge-maker.

Water becomes a sacred poison, a negative resource, held against its will to produce droplets of deceit, just enough to support the wider propaganda.

Calories collaborators, flour and sugar sandbags and mortar, scales a questionable but necessary ally with a conflicting ideology like Joseph Stalin.

And you can.

Literally.

Climb.

Mountains.

Exhaustion a sweet pause in the overall annihilation. An afternoon of yuletide football.

Otherwise it remains a sub-atomic appreciation of transgression, wherein each of the body’s five million pores is an exposed orifice.

But, again. It’s not about sex. It’s about immortality.

And cooking.




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