I grawn - somewhere between a groan and a yawn - as the smell of pizza slips into my consciousness.
Slices lie abandoned and congealed in the box. Cheese hard and leathery.
A crust on my chest.
A wonderful smell permeates me.
I stir in my cocoon sheets. Thoughts thunder... where is my mind?
Where is my mind. Way out in the water, see it swimmin'.
The lyrics of the song echo last night's drum beat; fleeting hammering makes a rhythm of death.
The French call it 'the little death'...La petite mort.
I wish I was dead. Life resonates nothing in this come down as gigantic as annihilation.
"Sour pills are the best Sandy. That's how you know they're good, if it doesn't make you retch, throw that shit away."
Fluid light flits through a thousand pumping hands as the music peaks. The rush of a milion synapses firing in rapid succession.
Sandy chews on her lip as those green eyes burn as fierce as her smile.
Memory fades as I hear the toilet flush. She walks into the room. Sunlight lances pain through the crack left in the door and the morning's glow rings a halo of her nakedness. Cool air flows across my temples as the door closes.
No amount of drug-drain can explain the exquisite hunger that overcomes me. She is my world, and my little death finds resurrection in the throbbing of my flinty mind.
The world shines pure sustenance.
I am hungry for life again.
The end.
