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You've stationed yourself by the side of the road, convinced that maybe the billows of exhaust that are streaming by will make the smiling faces that are drifting past you a little less real, or maybe even get you a little more intoxicated. (you secretly hope for the latter, after all it might be better than ribbon noose you are considering to later on wrap around your neck, replacing the decision you just made which is to grasp the threads instead within your fingers, like you are some kind of ******** clown.)

.. The dinner table is set and ready and your hard work is in the process of being torn down. You shut your eyes and expand your lungs to the breaking point and you avoid centring in on the fact that you're in the middle of an endless, bloody war zone. (the scrape of metal on teeth is hard to bare when you're the only one who has butter-soft words rotting on your tongue and slithering down your collapsing oesophagus - perhaps a noose won't be necessary this time around)

... There are organs from today left scattered and excreting god-only-knows-what all over the carpet and you stare vacantly at the cardboard tents you have lately been seemingly required to take in like a deity accepting sacrifices to stave alive - however, you can't find the point in the routine. (it's only now that you can see how tomorrow has only ever been a hurriedly wrapped surprise; and that is why you've decided that it's time to turn the tables and give tomorrow yourself, nice and tidy in a pretty little box)


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..happy birthday? you're nothing but alone!