Delete the delimeter. This half-man half-bottomless pit has been honored in every other place and space where he has spat, shat, or stammered. There is no ambiguity about his claim to have belonged to the numina of the written word-- he claims it as his birthright. The world is a growing heap of dogshit but if you believe otherwise, why not just smile and smell the gas.
The denominator that anthromorphically defines the rut of docile wart-riddled meat or poultry has nothing to do with Januar Yap. He is the perpetual beyonder, the one who strides first into the mountains and the last to come out of rooms where everything earthly or unearthly falls into place. Listen to the stories he tells.
Born and raised the way we are all born and raised but swayed into the dark corners of the garden upon meeting the gardener. What's ecstacy? Not a drug nor a feeling. It's a taste, an urge, a ceremony performed to appease the divinity of being human.
The refugee, frail-framed pugilist in the ring where the canvas smells of things that come and come hard. The voice in his throat will cripple your marathons of depression.
He has saved himself but don't ask him how.
