Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

He clambered onto the bed and the fine oak bedposts rotted immediately. The bed shifted. There was the slurping sound of suckers attaching and detaching themselves, like an octopus on dry land shuffling nervously. He dared a smile; he had no teeth. The stench was unmentionable. He screeched, he jerked this way and that. When he undressed, he was like a man struggling to get out of a straightjacket. The linen sheets had turned to soot by then, the wallpaper was peeling. I breathed. I wriggled out of my dress like a moulting cicada, and we fucked like mating slugs.