death

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>tfw bored as fuck on the night shift at the World Star Museum

‘There was a severed head buried in here,’ I say. ‘Over there I think.’

All the people walk away.

Willy never saw the bullet that punched a hole in his head, blew his broken brain apart, and ended his torment.

“Tell me a love story,” one whispers to the other, underneath the covers, late at night.

When I was twelve years old, my mother went into surgery for the first time for her heart.

I am possessed by the spirit of the pen, recast in a new, comically unlikely and unlikeable role.

I wanted to fuck the dead man.

Is this what you want? Is this what you’re into?

I recall the man in the tvättstuga called Benny, scouring his pants with a brillo attached to a prong.