Trapped in the current of a river. Not the kind that cleanses or nourishes, but the slow moving slop sludge kind that's warm, soft, and smooth in all the wrong ways. It is an intenstinal ditch, digestive discards of a process of a process of a process.
This is the production river. It is productive when it flows. Small amorphous chunks bob gently in its stream. The bile soaked products glisten. We feed this river from the anus of our own devising.
And it stains me.