http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M6j7A6uvdrQ
(蚓部為小腦左右半球連結的部份，中間有神經元連結作兩個半球的息交流。)
“你對死亡莫可奈何，但你可對肉的顏色的驚人之美有所作為。”培根如是說，一個20世紀的英國藝術家，用這句話解釋他為何要畫血塊和骯髒的場景。當我承認培根的感知之際，我也假定他
對於肉的顏色的鑑賞讓他成為一個他佯裝迴避的終極死亡之行家。
我承認我是一個死亡的鑑賞家。當我成千上萬的兄弟姊妹們無法自拔而麻木的嚼‧嚼‧嚼著所有的廢臟，我則為了最甜美的肉保留精力：被恐懼感染的動物屍體。遭受緩慢的—痛苦的死亡的動物屍體。肉被火烤脆，被鋼刀切成片，有顆子彈在它的胃裡。這裡有座屠宰場，在此我可安穩進食。
你對死亡可為所欲為。肉的顏色有驚人之美，五彩繽紛：滲透了肉的紫色、內臟的半透明玫瑰色、腐肉冒泡的湛藍色。培根一定是在屠宰場作畫的。肉的味道有驚人之美，五味雜陳。
當我們從屍骨上剝下肉，我們不只是讓它的結構顯露出來，我們在組合它的元素。對大多數人來說這是一個被拆解的蛋白質和被重新填儲的簡易幼蟲組織的問題。對我而言這是一種淨化作用。我呈現死亡的品質，他的理解力滋養我，或許我在某方面幫助釋放他的靈魂。
必然的，我已經活過幾千次。我記得無數的宗冊，並寫了不少。我建立了無數朝代，再撕毀它們看著它們殞落。我曾是子宮中的胎兒以及洞穴中的智者。我不斷反覆的消化著”自由”、”愛”和”永恆”。
人類時為運動、時為愛而自相殘殺，時則僅為將人送進屠宰場以餵養更多的人—長期下來，或者餵養我及我的同類。每一個人都自以為活在最糟糕的年代，但其實並沒有麼不同。
我蜷曲在一個經過漫長的尊榮的獵捕後、沒有特殊理由而死亡的年青人輕微損傷的腦中。那閃耀的螺旋層被分解了，接著被剝離拆解成化學成分。我狼吞虎嚥著他的心靈原汁。讓他的品味變的敏銳的死亡瞬間讓他頓悟了這種可怖的真實。
我沉醉在他經驗和情感的洪水中。我綜合了他的知識。引領我在液化的腦中嗑吃出一條途徑的瞬間，我活著他生命的全部。我在他的世界中打滾。我死著他百賴無聊的死。
就像我永遠樂於做一隻在屠宰廠的蛆勝於做一個人。
It's nothing to do with mortality but it's to do with the great beauty of the color of meat." So said Francis Bacon, an artist of the twentieth century, explaining why he painted scenes of gore and squalor. While admiring his sentiment, I would also postulate that Bacon's appreciation for the color of meat made him a connoisseur of the very mortality he pretended to eschew.
I consider myself a connoisseur of mortality. While my millions of brethren and sistren chew, chew, chew their way through whatever offal comes along, inexorable but mindless, I preserve my energies for the sweetest meat: the carcass tainted by fear. The carcass that suffered the protracted death, the agonizing death. Meat crisped alive by fire, meat sliced open by steel, meat with a bullet in its gut.
Here in the slaughterhouse, I dine well.
It is everything to do with mortality. It is the great beauty of the color of meat, of its many colors: the spongy purple of drowned flesh, the translucent rose of fresh viscera, the seething indigo of rot. Bacon must have painted in the slaughterhouse. It is the great beauty of the flavor of meat, of its many flavors.
When we reduce a carcass to bone, we not only reveal its structure; we become composed of its elements. For most of the others, this is a matter of breakingdown proteins and replenishing simple larval tissues. For me it is a kind of catharsis. I take on the qualities of the deceased, I am nourished by his perceptions, and perhaps somehow I aid in releasing his soul.
Consequently, I have lived thousands of lives. I have memorized countless tomes, and written more than a few. I have constructed dynasties, then torn them down or watched them fall. I have been a foetus in a womb and a guru in a cave. I have digested the concepts of "freedom" and "love" and "eternity," and excreted them, over and over again.
Men kill other men, sometimes for sport, sometimes for love, sometimes just sending them to the slaughterhouse to feed still more men -- or, if left too long, to feed me and my kin. Each one thinks he has lived in the worst of times, but nothing has ever been different.
I curl in the slightly damaged brain of a young man who died for no particular reason, after a protracted and honorable hunt. The glistening whorls are dissolving, coming unglued, breaking down into their chemical components. I gorge myself on the primordial soup of his mind. The terrible realization that dawned upon him at the moment of death sharpens the taste.
I become drunk on his flood of experiences and emotions. I synthesize his knowledge. I live his entire life in the time it takes me to eat a path through his liquefying brain. I wallow in his world. I die his weary death.
As always, it makes me glad to be a maggot in the slaughterhouse and not a man.
© Poppy Z. Brite, 1998
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