A word to eat dry flesh with. In fact, a word that eats flesh, dry or otherwise. Although this word may strike the reader with a stony moribundity lasting millennia, bespeaking a dryness beyond dryness, a dustiness that is pulverized desiccated flesh bound by resinated wrappings, bringing a gust of sarcastic coughing, it grew up not in the sands of the Valley of Kings or the gradually eroding geometric eternity of Cheops but in Greek limestone. The sarc, which quickly echoes an oceanic flesh eater, is flesh itself, and the phagus is a gustatory gulp that goes down your gullet by way of your esophagus. The Greeks buried dead in the eternal erosion of sarcophagus stone. The cough of ashes and dust and the coffin of the grave are fortuitous echoes of the adventitious throat-catching transition mid-word. A hiss, a catch, a blow, a swallow, and then a hiss again: this word is the eons-old snake itself, the quick in the lime, no mere inertia to take for granite.

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