This is my fourth attempt at a postcard as I have not stopped walking
since Midvale. That was 13 days ago. It is almost impossible to have
legible penmanship when one is unable to stand still.
Paper is scarce, so I hope you won't be too put off by this stretched
and dried flap of thigh flesh. (I've finally been successful in getting
the remnants back from that bit of plastic surgery I told you
about.) Beggars can't be choosers.
I think the soles of my feet are beginning to turn to pulp. I feel a
squelch of blood inside the carcasses of my shoes which are
disintegrating by the mile. The side of my left sneaker is split and
the rubber is hanging off in a fat strip. The flap makes a sound like a
wet cow's fart each time my foot hits the pavement.
I'm waiting to find out if one can walk on only ankle stumps.
Oh, and I'm running out of water.
I hope you are well.
- - -
Read XTX's story, "Because Seven Ate Nine."
w i g · l e a F