Fist of the Night Terror and Other Reason

My stomach is bloated from tomorrow's sandwiches. The brain in my half metal half skull cage is sloppy eastern and blurries my vision so i can only groan at the flies of living picking at the shit on my thickening bones. I'm finished. The crossbow is aimed at my coffee cup. The tension grows.

Stop touching me. Stop touching me.

The gloved hand reaches deep into the pond to hit me. Under the skin, mud becomes clouds and clouds become this unbreathable darkness. Laying on my back in the yard wet under the night inside the fog the sad and lonelies sing a retractable song.

Something about something about something about you and it being old and one day it being new.

i am porno that keeps the this theater together