Mark Heustice

He finds himself crying.  He is sitting in a pub, and suddenly, he is
sobbing.  His friends are touching various parts of his body, as if 
trying to find the off-switch, to turn off the crying.  He does not 
seem to mind that he is showing such an enormous amount of emotion in
such a public place.

He cannot see anything coherent.  But his eyesight is insignificant here.
It is an out of focus camera, redundant.  The brain receives no messages
of any clarity.  His hearing is as it would be were he underwater.	

There is a lot of liquid involved in crying.  He is quite surprised.  He
becomes aware of an alarming amount of liquid cascading from many of his 
orifices.  He attempts to answer a question he thought he had heard a few
minutes ago.  He thinks it was "Why are you crying?"  He finds that his 
mouth is full of spittle.  "I don't know", he sanswers, rather damply.

He becomes very aware of himself, very conscious of his physical being.  
He seems to just out, become larger.  He becomes super-sensitive.  The feel
of his clothes, his bottom on the soft pub couch, his eyes stinging a 
little; all accentuated.  He shudders, an involuntary phenomenon, nothing
to do with him.  He realises that he has not cried for years, not since he
was a child.  He cannot possibly remember why.  Adults do not cry that much.

He has made no attempt at covering his face.  Most people cover their faces
to hide the fact that they are crying, even though it is obvious that they
are.  Something to do with not wanting to feel vulnerable.

He feels his face contort.  His mouth transfigures and strains.  His nostrils
feel three feet wide.  There is a strange noise coming from his throat.  He
feels that this is all a touch unnecessary.  Yet he has no control.  This is
the standard procedure for crying.

He has acquired a tissue to mop up.  He does so, still staring into the 
colourful, fuzzy pub. 	

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