death

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The air is stale and reeks of vomit, piss, shit, and strawberries.

Maybe there’s a family of spiders living in my car. I’ve never told anyone this.

those who make you breathe against your will

The first time we saw Roadkill Rick was, fittingly enough, on the side of the road carefully inspecting a raccoon.

I have died many times. Sometimes I just need five minutes to die again.

I climbed up the ladder inside my cell every day to the little square opening high above.

Music plays. There is a calm atonal reverb.

Think beyond the self’s demands and be a patience paragon, a Patron Saint of Gentle Ears

laughter in the world
shushes

Frost in the windowpanes, an icy gust in the morning. It only gets colder when the sun rises.