Feel like an abandoned shot of bourbon, dribbling up itself, a puke-haze horizon in the giddy distance; a delirious eel of a feeling.

Feel like a quacked-out honk boffin. Feel like Greta Garbo's final tears, all dried up and dusty. Feel like a duck's armpit.

Feel like a medieval fax machine dancing with a hologram of Marilyn Monroe. During a blackout. In winter. Wires covered in snow.

Just woke up. Feel like feathers trapped in a pillow in the chamber of a castle under siege. Feel like a quill robbed of its efficacy.

Oh God, the quacktangle has gone ballistic! There are beaks everywhere. Just a pile of beaks. I shouldn't have honked so hard.

UPDATE: The beak is overflowing with bread. It's just a soggy, crumby ooze, palpable as cheese. But it's bread. Dripping bread.

The day is grey but I'm honking on the beak of a quacktangle. I don't care if I'm retching feathers by 6pm.