In the warmth of the bed your own fart brings to your nostrils the smell of rotting flesh: the lamb chops you devoured last night. Seasoned with rosemary and with an undertaker’s paper-frill on the severed rib-bones. Another corpse digested.

‘Become a vegetarian, then.’ She’s heard it all too many times before; sick of it, sick of my being sick of it. Sick of the things I say, that surface now and then.

‘I want no part of it.’

The Man from Hiroshima