Awake

Awake. Hair like a wig left on spin cycle for too long, lips, a cracked and bleeding desert. Head pounding like Native American drums beseeching the spirits before a war. Stumble out of bed into the shower, scalding water hammering down, like the vengeful tears of an industrial acid rain ripping from the land everything organic.

The drums go on and on only the palpitations of the heart are louder. Shower ceased, a rough and unforgiving towel and stumble back bed. A modicum of decency, a few pieces of clothing, stagger down the hall in search of sustenance. Lack of appetite sated, collapse and dream the convoluted images of the drugged and dying.

And still the drums go on.
-redbishopii