Danger Danger!

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Danger! It is dangerous to arm a mad imagination with a notion of human anatomy, for like a fitful edgy child whose fidgety claws find soothing incessant wringing; it will mangle whatever it snatches. It will begin to butcher the bodies offered it by well meaning teachers and, as any whose hands have been blood-gloved know, a thorough inspection of innards shatters irreversibly the ripper’s once pleasant image of its exploded study as whole, special and opaque. To make a sick scientist, show a twisted imaginative boy pictures of gurgling guts. A man will not do, for anyone that has already killed or destroyed something will eventually reach the same mindset by alternate means. The boyish weakness is key.

Besieged by belittling facts of, his repugnance will weaken. Perhaps, if he is sufficiently warped to begin with, he may begin to exhibit a ghoulish zeal in the lonely dissection of those weird wanderers so pervasive and perverted as to think themselves supreme and infallible. As his little head bends ever deeper, ribbons of flesh will fly from under his furious fingers, expositor of the grim. As a workaholic engineer begins to think in schematics, the masochistic quack will begin to synthesize the subtle horrors of textbook diagrams: scrawling nervework, snakes of slimy skin, and quivering chambers, ignoring the oily sheen in which the figures glow, with the shadows of his own limbs that bob in and out of his peripheral vision, with his own trunk’s tingles. He may jam  images of flinty bone into the hints of sockets and nose slope that color his every perception like his murky spectacles of self. He may cram thoughts of rosy sponge into his own blood-laced braincase bone cage. He may wonder at the weirdness of an organ watching itself, cursing itself and calming itself all within one surge of its sustaining subordinate spasms.

This will age him.  In living autopsy he will record his own fall from a name whose every pleasant illusion is intact toward an organism and all involved evils as he scowls at the human form. His morbid assemblage thus completed, he will, like Frankenstein, draw back to gawk, aghast at the gaps, oversights, the clot flecked railroad tracks of stitched up scars. His desensitization is worse than that of the emergency room surgeon who sees all patients as a muddle of wounds that he instantly classifies, the name on the clipboard a mere afterthought and [transience]stamped upon the unchanging physiology of man. Such a man is not often condemned to watching the play of his patients emotions, of their actions.  In being so exclusively acquainted with their impersonally organic pulp, the madman’s sense of social proprieties, which spring from a consideration of humans as more than collections of bloody tissue, is wont to wane, and he may at times consider these beings monstrous.

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