Delay-Decay-Attack

I shoved fistfuls of ice into my eyes and mouth and thought: "Now I am away from it all." The air is warm, is black, smells of vinegar acids - wanting to dissolve to a vapour, to disappear, to be ice; no, sharp, to cut, to sear, to burn, but the light frays my nerves, hurts my eyes and then it's over. You're ill; I'm drinking, it's morning...

My skin blisters from grey to pink to scarlet. The taste is new on my lips, is coppery, burns my tongue. The air is warm, is black, smells of vinegar acids, as a hand of spindle-thin bones cuts through my own. And through the red-lights here, I want you to walk me home, but you snatch your hand away, you say... and the light frays my nerves, hurts my eyes and then it's over. You're ill; I'm drinking, it's morning...