Sketchy.

An array of frightening nervous laughter flees from one wall to another.
YOU ARE DYING.






My hands bleed. Poisoned volumes trickle in drops down my purple fingers, resting near the tips of my manicured fingernails.
Don't discount the small amount.
It's just a drip to the eye.




I would bet the cocoa fifty in my back pocket it's enough to stop the continuous melody, running through your body.
Nonstop motion, finally collapses.
The end is never soon enough.