Yesterday evening I went to bed with a fierce will to sleep as my day had been a full and taxing one. As I lay there in the filtered orange gloaming, summoning from within the bio-chemical boon of drowsiness, I became troubled by a most malignant aroma rising from regions unknown.
I decided to get up and check the black fungal nipples that seem to flourish upon the outer walls of the house – likely candidates, thought I, for the creation of hostile smells. The nipples however were dry and though perforated by insect colonies, host to only the faintest of odours.
Passing the hall mirror on my return to bed I caught a glimpse of myself and the odd blueish glow emminating from my left nostril. I approached the mirror for closer inspection and was dumbfounded to discover a tiny spectre woman, one of the species made popular by Coleridge in the Ancient Mariner, nesting among my nostril hairs.
This diminutive gothic phantom glared at me balefully from under her brow of bleached bone, while at the same time squeezing her bosoms to produce clouds of greyish powder. At once I understood from whence the foul miasma had come and reached for the tweezers.
A short while later I was drifting into blissful slumber to the slowly diminishing hiss of the cistern.
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