Rays of light dance across the ceiling, goaded by the wind which twitches the branches outside the window. Cars race to destinations that will not live up to the hype. People will die because it is imperative that you get home at 6:30, not 6:35 - I'm sure he'll understand when you shake the hand of the man whose child has died.
Incremental madness. I'll take it - sign me the fuck up right now. It is the axe-chop finality of real insanity that keeps company with the monster under my bed. And there ain't even a monster under my bed. That shit ain't meant to be taken literally. I'm much more afraid of what is actually under there. Monsters can be reasoned with. There's a smell, though, and I don't think it's listening to reason. I'd guess that, given the varieties of fungi that can grow on old yoghurt containers, it's probably like a goddamn rave down there. But I'm too tired to check.
Hey pretty lady, why do you walk on by? Nose so high. Like all the world is a shit-pile and you're made of Lysol wipes.
I see the statistics and go ballistic, mind racing that long stretch of dried out homily. I'd love to talk about it - how you skew the numbers, how you parse the gentle lies, but right now I don't feel like it. I feel like an old banana skin. Covered in flies.
Everybody wants to know how. Everybody wants to know when. And we make up reasons and timetables that are real damn convenient - most half-truths are, that's why we use 'em.
Your voice changes and you open your eyes, and then you start finding ways to close them, swallowing lies. That's the way the game's played - always has been.
And the first taste is always free.