Sexually harrassed maggots sleeping through the storm. Primal greed and clumps of blood pour out of my wrists and into my spit tray, back to the story at hand. Pins and needles are always on my mind, shake it a little, maybe I will wake. Right before drowning, when your face is blue; your eyes bulging and you have no other choice but to suck the thick fluid into your lungs. Is it peaceful? Pick me, pick me, I'm next in line.
Who in the world will be left to clean up all this mess?
