I've been riding insomnia since Tuesday and am hoping for a substance induced layover in Nodsville, away from this hell of decay, going nowhere. I look to be with child. Apparently my liver has quit as well because my skin is jaundiced. I am bent over the billiard table. The floor is sticky and it smells of fetid wretchedness.
People hover in the periphery, their eyes occulted by the shadows cast by sparse orange lightbulbs.
I feel as though underwater, it is all so slow and deliberate. I am expecting to wake up any minute now and laugh myself into fits. Some tube-topped tattooed trollop in Birkenstocks is touching my elbow, wearing so much rottenfruit perfume that it's sticking to my skin. I can't smell it, but I can feel it in my eyes, making it hard to blink, a sludge. Sounds like an overcooked bratwurst lanced with a screwdriver.