There I was. A drink looking for a throat. I stood in the quarter-light, a shadow looking for a frame. A window cracked. Hey. A sound looking for an airwave . I was pensed up. I was a sandwich seeking a knuckle. A solution looking for a problem. A cure pining for a disease.
I climbed the ladder like a tit finding a suckling. The things you do, you think you have reasons, but your decisions look for reasons.
I hopped the railing, a shooting trying to find a gun. Patterns are laid, don't be afraid, if you're not the problem you're the solution. All is ordained, backwards is forwards.
The window kicked my foot. I afforded the glass a shattering sound. Monsters teemed within. My eyes granted purple to their cocks, glimmer to their slime, jagged teeth to their jaws. The big cunt donated the weapon when I smashed his foot with my ribs. The gun unspun across the floor. I gave the slobbering fucker the old 2/1. His brains twisted my bullet and my ears generated silence.
If everything travelled backwards, how would you know? Your mind on Tuesday wouldn't know about Wednesday, even if it had already 'happened' to you. You'd only have Tuesday's brain. Then on Monday Tuesday's a ghost.
?FTW
?huH
