Apocalypse (22.a)

she tells you to stuff a live parakeet in your mouth that it isn’t really a parakeet that when you feel the head rub the roof of your dry mouth that it will become water or wine or whatever you believe it will be & you believe this because you have survived so many deaths your poor wings a cautionary tale for a microscopic revolutionary when the water wine whatever parakeet slithers down your throat you are compelled to want to compost yourself suck your own bones & spit them out in your hair