It is dark and glossy, wettish, with a sheen. I should abject it. It is like that but also I should not complain and could perhaps sniff it and that would be not so bad. I mean, it might not. I took some on my hand. First, on the edge of a knife and then spread on my hand like vegemite. It is not worse than vegemite and my hand is not a kind of bread and still. It was curious and my skin could feel some mint-oilish property, some waking, some opening of its skin-eyes. And the crevasses of my palm–lubricated–as if, had I arthritis, this would be balm or distraction. As if my folds had been plumpened but not with bacteria as they have been lately using to augment and disguise the face of the hollywo-men. I think this material might cover acres of skin, a spa aid, or surge across the top of an inland sea like a foam that strangles algae by surfacing the body as with tar. Any lake would be clearer for it and less alive. It would not move vertically but always be spreading which means it has what is commonly known as a feminine nature. Healing or the complete eradication of breath: these are the two potential uses that come to mind. Also, I would not taste it. Please do not ask me again. To make it more itself, I would suggest reading it the works of Poe or, alternately, Donne or Lubavitch. I would not sing the blues near the substance as it has a competitive aura, and would probably not be able to help itself as it diminished other things faster than itself. I want it on my naked body. It would feel cool and I would be underneath gone. United with other types of sewage, it could become I imagine a standing bird or a swinging needle, a dry cocoon or the heart of a deer, the dead heart of a deer the huntsman carried to the queen in a lie. Or perhaps the sole of a runner, to keep him from delivering.