Wincing through a quiet offensive

Spiralling

Consulting no one, dropping not even the faintest of hints, and stationed in the air around the fridge door, a heavy mix of poison, death and wet rodent pelt.

Palpitations of the heart lead into a disorientated womble. A stumble toward abnormal proportions of blood coursing through the valves. Heart attacks to wake up, nauseating odours to endure breakfast with. Metres away.

Soon Van - Thursday, 23 June 2005 - 02:57

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