Memos from the Grey

The frontal lobe bristled softly: this choice of death is obscenely slow. While the middle expelled a bloated breath in the vicinity of the bruise. Black was the window. And deep blue were the curtains. As the world in a vast collective pressed its nose to the glass to gawk at the deformity it showcased so frantically.

It is alive only in the most scientific of senses croaked the hypothalamus from its graffitied pedestal. It is not alive to touch. Nor needles. Nor drugs. It slouches toward the darkness dogmatically in its disturbed penance for having ever lived. It prays a rosary of masturbation and vice to the deaf gods that exist only in its head.

It only pats the bruise with precision jabs. Manically soliciting the pain reflex. It callously keeps us alive manipulating the flesh meant to give us substance.

We wither in the dark tent it surrounds us with. Second by second. The choice. The method. And the madness. All belong to it.