Drip, drip, drip. Thats all I hear, besides from the melodic, almost lullaby-ish singing of Slash's guitar, ringing in my ears. I feel half asleep, lethargic. Sometimes I wish I could just sleep the days away until summer.
Although this summer won't be the same.
I've seen my friends leave.
Drip. Drip. Drip. One by one, take their flight from my strands of hair and land in the sink as I brush the locks, sliding down the basin and making their way into the drain, to leave forever.
I've seen somebody who is terminally ill.
My near grandfather, at least it seems like it. Practically on his deathbed, the cancer spread so far around his body.
I've drawn the horrors of my imagination.
Vines relinquishing themselves from people's bodies by sprouting from dead, open mouths and eye sockets, the pupils nowhere to be found. The hand of Satan, robed in the finest silk cloth, reaching out to a stricken man, taking his eye from the socket and leaving its bloody trail unimaginable.
I've stayed up all night, hearing creaks, jingles, and opening of doors.
The little tricks my head plays on me to keep me an insomniac. The little voices, chattering away, the laughter, the jingling that is constantly in my head, driving me insane.
So what am I to do?
I want somebody.
I want something.
I need things back.
And I want to sleep.
Can you taste the fear in her sweat?
