On that sole occasion his temporary sobriety suffers him unmitigated access to the actual dimension of his grief, its breadth and depth, he feels as if a massive internal and consolidate scream erupts sudden and simultaneous into the viscera from the aggregate surface area of his skin’s lining, a volume of implosion unceasing until quietened with whiskey and the eventual willed eradication of consciousness, saying to himself over and again throughout as he swallows
Skunk: Carpenter, goddamn.
