Whispered: A flush of anger is a shark in the jet black of your room. Something disconnects, elongates at the height of your abdomen and let’s it pound loose; tar, tar, saber-tooth.

There’s a thin line between being crazy and being an imbecile, between being crazy and being a son of a bitch. You realize the last one is the worst and ratios of these three make his cocktail work.

Still whispering: The grey in darkness has the same grains as on his television screen. The program is over, he is asleep. Big fish is chafing those dull aquarium walls. It spins until it winds down, pumps down to your genitals, like sucked by a shaft or a back room; it dies. Why does it do that? It makes no sense. Hours stack, broken, useless, dusty in the shed.
He is just an imbecile. Coming back to all the things you’ve run away from. Happy Xmas.