Hips in eel sauce she toes her way through padded swarms of pussies kittens cats. They are a grey sea of fur and waves of purring, broken by white mewlings at the crest. Documenta, a child-bride no longer, has outlived her withered husband and with her newly fertile midsection, weighted by hips and breasts that had no influence on her center of balance when she was a married girl, she prepares to wed the melodrama for whom she was pre-destined.

She has already made her way through the Sea of Rodents and Small Burrowing Animals, losing only a gilded brocade slipper and a bead from her dress. She has already braved the Lagoon of Gaudy Waterfowl and the Lake of Incessantly Buzzing Six-legged Things, having sacrificed nothing but some small fragments of skirt, some threads from her silver sleeves. And now the cats take nothing from her but the remaining shoe and a sliver - a shaving - of skin here and there. Trifles.

On the morning of the death of the Husband, a repulsive thing came to the window of the young widow, came in the dawn of her mourning, and fixed its eyes upon her naked back. It was a small, harmless Repulsive Thing, and Documenta was not scared of it, but nonetheless it caused her some trouble. With a sigh and a slither it slipped into her womb and made itself into a ball there - curled up and breathing. Amphibious and winged, a fetal mess of translucent organs, it mewed and demanded food. And so Documenta ate.

She ate and ate and masticated and consumed and devoured and was still hungry. Fruits and milk and meat disappeared down her throat until she became the locus of a hundred mile radius desert, she became a swarm of locusts leaving dried famine in her wake.

It became apparent to Documenta, the child bride, that it was time to leave.

And so she set out across the desert of her own making, in search of some sustenance, in search of some relief, some aid in ending the relentless pangs in her belly.

The widowed and blooming former child bride traveled across the dusty expanse, gathering handfuls of sand to fill her cavernous desire, sucking on stones to placate a yearning tongue. Within three days the crazed hunger had already driven the sense from her mind and she became fevered and delusional. She tripped over a blushing hole in the sand and the pink cavity, graciously taking no offense, informed her that the only hope for her, in ever relieving the cravings, lay in being devoured herself. Documenta saw reason in this logic of negation, this homeopathy of like treating like. Ah yes, to end my hunger I will feed myself to the hungry. How sensible and simple.

And that is why we find our heroine, newly refreshed after consuming large quantities of cats, waterfowl, rodents and insects, and leaving a trail of devastation behind her, making steady headway toward the roving ocean of wild-eyed wolves, who follow the sun around the globe, keeping it ever on the horizon and maintaining their grey hour. Soon soon soon she will come to the ocean, soon she will feel the thrashing wind of its movement and soon she will lift her skirts and dip her legs into the sea.

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