Muscles, tendons. The decorticated torso of a cadaver is etched upon the page with an affectionate attentiveness.
Instead of a clear, precise entry following, the medic's words are scratchy, the ink smudged. It spirals into obscurities and frustrated scribbles.
One's sensory nerves are the receptive, conductive attendant vessels of the brain, which receive the impression and data of one's senses, or touch. They carry along the psychic force; the spiritus; the very essence of mortal consciousness, with lightning-speed, to our brain - where the very feeling develops, and indeed is felt. When a bullet hits one's side, the signal is noted by our spiritus within such hollowed fibres, pushing itself through to where it may properly be perceived. A moment, perhaps, of shock; adrenaline, until the morbid ache begins. Until the body truly reacts, until the sanguine flows. The shock harms the psyche even as one bleeds out, as one foolishly finds the forgetful beginning.
What is self-preservation when one is too stunned to speak, let alone think?
These prejudiced divinities of life have failed him, and betrayed me. Why was I deserving of the cursed return, if he was not?
Pierre. Mature Decedere.