Legs enlaced like crochet, a finger dipped in. Inflated balloons, facial reconstruction based around the concept of ego destruction, unleashed id to thaw through the bean stock soup feeding the marchers on their way to the Sorbonne. -- Lips like licorice. -- Day-dreams kill. -- Im sad, gotta listen to Black Metal. -- I casually sitting around fantasizing about my open wrists and surviving. Watching tv which deep death blood draining down my hands. -- I see a qt with his qt gf, they exchange dating niceties, even kiss before depart. I've got no chance. Still. I keep staring at his ass, and day dreaming. -- The corpses of pages past lie about the floor. Cum has drenched some of the brittle old paper and now turns yellow -- Yellow. -- and among the tore-out-bits are more tore-out-bits. The fan spins and the everything goes flying. On the one working tv left int he building plays the movie version of Fahrenheit 451. Below: smashed chairs, some condoms full of blood, a pentagram of shit on the wall, a tv with the screen busted in, a sink on fire, the ceiling fan barely hanging on by a chord. And a corpse, a knife in its gut, wrists slit so deep you can see the bone from across the room. And piss. Lots and lots of drying, yellow piss.
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