I have collected all of the tweets that I have written so far about a character called Mon. Why Mon? Because he’s nearly a man, half a monster and has only one eye.

I don’t know how this tweet series will develop. I learned long ago not to worry too much about planning. It will be what it will be.

It is suddenly very cold.

Mon opens his eye. He sees little: fog, the ground. A skeletal tree.

Where am I? he thinks.

Mon listens. He can hear distant noises through the fog: laughter, gunshots, cars, birdsong.

So I am in the world, he thinks.

Mon shivers. He’s naked. The need to warm himself is sudden, imperious.

His body’s other demands soon follow. He’s hungry, thirsty, horny.

With a lurching motion, shivering violently, Mon propels himself through the fog.

Sloping ground gives way and he finds himself on a road.

The fog is thinner here. The road is empty.

The distant sounds seem fainter.

Mon curls up against the cold, foetus-like, on his side.

Despite feeling painfully cold, Mon wants desperately to get up and hunt for food. His stomach moans mournfully.

He also has an erection.

He feels like a marionette, pulled one way then another by his bodily needs.

So this is life, he thinks.

Mon falls asleep.

When he wakes he’s so cold he can’t move.

Is it possible to be alive and have rigor mortis? he wonders.

A rat crawls onto Mon, taking him for a corpse.

Mon waits until it is near his face, then opens his mouth. A slow, painful operation!

The rat is curious. It peers into Mon’s maw.

Mon waits until the head is in his mouth, then bites it clean off.

Nutrition at last!

Mon has eaten his fill. This gives him the strength to straighten out from his agonised coil. He stands, walks.

Rat is tasty, he thinks.

Further along, the road is overrun by vegetation. Mon collapses onto his belly and starts slithering through. He’s aware of movement.

Insects are at war. They seethe, scurry, make bristling formations. Mon sees heads, abdomens, legs, thoraxes, severed, crushed.

To make matters worse, his prostrate progress is impeded by the aggressive erection whose pangs continue to torment him.

Maybe life would be better if I were a girl, Mon ponders.

Around him, creation quakes, agitates, cries, eats itself.

Fog, wracked undergrowth, insects, the slaughterhouse of nature.

Mon closes his eye in horror.

But what he imagines is worse still.

Mon sees towers of blood.

He sees lakes awash with the dead.

He sees spiny forms in a dark womb.

He sees a head on the end of a bayonet.

He sees a screaming mouth.

He sees eyes squinting from a white blast.

He sees the King of Bones.

He sees the moon being torn like paper.

He sees smashed TVs.

He sees men whispering in a locked room.

He sees bodies falling through space.

He sees an iron pyramid, neon-lit.

Mon opens his eye and weeps.

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