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Wreck.
This is the part, tiny little nothing man where you reach down inside where everything good festers and dies, pull out your misery and strangle yourself with your own fetid tongue. Street whore cries injustice, plastic face melting off under the acid of her manufactured tears knees bruised and bloody from too long at his…
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floor.
in the dark, fumbling for the lightswitch like a drunk still wiping whore-red lipstick from his crotch and breathing fumes of cigarettes and stale whiskey on the doorman as he tries to maintain some sense of dignity -the light evades, exhaustion wins the floor becomes a haven, cold and hard unforgiving, flat black tiles cracked…
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April Fox 