Post by David Sanchez on Jun 21, 2015 21:06:49 GMT -5
Remember to Forget the Drugs.
A foul stench occupies his nostrils as he zips up his fly and takes a sharp breath through his nasal cavity, allowing the brief aroma of truck-driver with a hint of pine infused, drug-wretched urine to molest his sense of smell into submission before it is immediately and decisively beaten down by that old alarming, metallic tang.
Another fucking nosebleed, 5 days. 3 shit-fucking days ahead, another fu...
A gas station toilet, the location of choice for this evenings brief insight into the mind of David Sanchez, at this time having spent approximately one-hundred and fifteen hours without so much as a caffeinated beverage. Retirement, at thirty-one had proved a more grueling mistress than Sam herself had a wife. He crammed a wad of tissue into the secreting sign of his own peril and with a final glare in the mirror he was gone. Leaving not behind but the faint sound of his somewhat internal monologue, better known as muttering.
Hardwood, claw-hammer, stand, nails, bird-feeder, bird-food, paint.
Something was clearly amiss. David had stopped, in the doorway nonetheless, allowing both the interior and exterior to judge this man equally. He was statuesque for a moment, moving only to slap his own unshaven complexion and utter the simple sentiment. Whilst still repeatedly slapping himself across the side of the face.
Birdbath.. Those, the birds they.. Where are they? They dont know what's. They dont even know.
Another fucking nosebleed, 5 days. 3 shit-fucking days ahead, another fu...
A gas station toilet, the location of choice for this evenings brief insight into the mind of David Sanchez, at this time having spent approximately one-hundred and fifteen hours without so much as a caffeinated beverage. Retirement, at thirty-one had proved a more grueling mistress than Sam herself had a wife. He crammed a wad of tissue into the secreting sign of his own peril and with a final glare in the mirror he was gone. Leaving not behind but the faint sound of his somewhat internal monologue, better known as muttering.
Hardwood, claw-hammer, stand, nails, bird-feeder, bird-food, paint.
Something was clearly amiss. David had stopped, in the doorway nonetheless, allowing both the interior and exterior to judge this man equally. He was statuesque for a moment, moving only to slap his own unshaven complexion and utter the simple sentiment. Whilst still repeatedly slapping himself across the side of the face.
Birdbath.. Those, the birds they.. Where are they? They dont know what's. They dont even know.
