Rotting Skunks, Burial At Sea, Romantic Decay, And The Conviviality Of The Dead
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Our friend Travis found me a dead skunk, in January, where he was camping near the Santa Barbara coast. He kindly saved him in an ice chest until I could retrieve him, but it was a few days, and a warm winter, and by the time I took possession of the skunk he was in pretty rough shape. The skunk had been flattened by a truck, overrun with vermin, frozen and defrosted and frozen again, and when I got down to the business of skinning him, he was the deadest dead thing I had ever seen. I couldn’t even identify the parts of his body. His jaw had been shattered, his teeth jutting through his face in a hideous O like a lamprey’s mouth. His back legs were gone. Inside, his organs were completely liquefied: where I expected to find his bowels or stomach or liver was just a swollen bag of goo.
Rotting Skunks, Burial At Sea, Romantic Decay, And The Conviviality Of The Dead
Rotting Skunks, Burial At Sea, Romantic…
Rotting Skunks, Burial At Sea, Romantic Decay, And The Conviviality Of The Dead
Our friend Travis found me a dead skunk, in January, where he was camping near the Santa Barbara coast. He kindly saved him in an ice chest until I could retrieve him, but it was a few days, and a warm winter, and by the time I took possession of the skunk he was in pretty rough shape. The skunk had been flattened by a truck, overrun with vermin, frozen and defrosted and frozen again, and when I got down to the business of skinning him, he was the deadest dead thing I had ever seen. I couldn’t even identify the parts of his body. His jaw had been shattered, his teeth jutting through his face in a hideous O like a lamprey’s mouth. His back legs were gone. Inside, his organs were completely liquefied: where I expected to find his bowels or stomach or liver was just a swollen bag of goo.