41 Till Daybreak

Sleep eludes my gnashing maw... the rabbits are in cages, with no farms to labor. Such busywork, the spinning of webs... the feast of gray matter tickles the back of your throat. Knotted hair and scarlet, candied liquor grease my palms and whitened knuckles... Tuesday was her name. It was in my grasp, just one more ash... it always ends the same.