Cut coloured glass distorted forms of people pacing past. Everyone’s got somewhere to be.
The sour smell of last night’s beer and this morning’s bleach made it a comfortable start to the week.
Weeks of time passing all merged into one. The 5/2 split of days to live is just a social construct to instigate when you’re allowed to have fun.
Flowers wilted, my head tilted.
Bubbles fought past their brothers to congregate with others, in a foam topping the beer I sipped alone.
Nothing was happening.
Nothing ever happened.
On the precipice of my familiar black hole of despair I was pulled back by a soft, wet cracking from behind.
I turned around, trying not to be too loud because I liked this corner with it’s dim, protective shroud.
In the middle of the floor was a gelatinous puddle, spreading slowly outwards, carrying with it brittle shards of pale shell.