It's 11:27 on a Saturday night.
You heard me at 11:23.
I'm alone here, alone everywhere,
really.
Keyclicks sound empty and hollow.
Like me.
Screen shadows trace
horror shadows across my hands.
Withered hands.
Hands of the old.
Lines, and Lines, and Lines.
Winkles of experience, washed with defeat.
Rinsed with my tears.
Soaked by my blood.
Wrung out.
With my heart.
Old memories, and old guilt
stick like old soot.
To be scraped out over time,
with much effort.
Time is someting I have.
For now.
How long? How long?
Soon, that soot on these hands in the heart will be too strong.
Too strong. Too black.
Too entrenched in the way I feel.
The way I look.
The heart that washes this blood.