Sod it

By dark headed murk and a busfare of £20 and the poison in my veins and nowhere and nothing. Where can I stand? There is no warm pillow, just a damp alley. A dead alley. A friendless room. A broken piano. A dying dog. The car splutters empty. Drawn sluggish and diseased to rest the dry body upon the bricks. As the rain goes on and on, candles wink an illusion of life whilst getting intimate with death.
Sod it.

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