Post by quitsmoking2daysagoFUKKU on Apr 20, 2009 16:14:31 GMT -5
In the streets of HighdieHo, Alabama comes a turning point, not in the streets, in a mans shameful life. Only shameful to him, people can't turn back time, they do have the power to turn the future and that's exactly what this shivering pile of man did. He wasn't all there, of course, visions weren't true, his recent departure from a twelve year life dependent ate him alive.. gave him hallucinations. Do not feel pity for this man. Cheer him on if anything, it was done onto himself, this illness, sickness, the withdraw, all self mutilation.
An old notable version of Corey Black hovered in a ring over one end of the street, his hand stretched out and extended. This appearance of Black was Death, and he wanted a.. tag. Fingers dug into the streets asphalt yanking his crawling carcass along, collecting tiny rocks and pebbles that ripped into his skin and made themselves at home.
Black Death: I'm open!
The street narrowed and fluctuated amongst his false sight, it challenged him. Okay.. he thought, roses don't get thorns on their own, NO, they need water! how bad he wanted to light one up right then and there. The feeling that he had came too far to do so overwhelmed the urge, still, the internal battle didn't collapse.
Black Death: If life throws you hotdog's you gain weight.
NOOOO! Hotdog's. The words coming from the hallucination seemed like a stab in the back, a bitter taste in the mouth, a real fuckin' cheap shot. If you can't admit your problem, you can't fight it... but that was just wrong. A car broke the dusty image of Black Death, it came at mass speeds towering over his field of vision and running him down. A shower of screams filled the streets, agonizing pain took a dump on his chest and he squirmed and ached in horror. The car stopped feet away from the accident, it went into reverse and backed it's way to the scene of the crime.
Hit and Run'er: Good. You're still alive.
Expected the guy to maybe confront his own terrible doings with concern, call for help maybe, instead, he sat behind the wheel and smiled.. a big grin with mustard tainted on the corners of his mouth. How could he? thought the road kill fighting for breath, a broken sharp pointy rib tearing a hole in his breathing utensils.
Hit and Run'er: I feel so bad about this.. um, here.
One Monday Night Slam ticket flew out the passengers side window and the edgy corner harpooned into his eyeball. ooooh. Biting down on his tongue till he tasted blood.. and that was the last thing he tasted.
An old notable version of Corey Black hovered in a ring over one end of the street, his hand stretched out and extended. This appearance of Black was Death, and he wanted a.. tag. Fingers dug into the streets asphalt yanking his crawling carcass along, collecting tiny rocks and pebbles that ripped into his skin and made themselves at home.
Black Death: I'm open!
The street narrowed and fluctuated amongst his false sight, it challenged him. Okay.. he thought, roses don't get thorns on their own, NO, they need water! how bad he wanted to light one up right then and there. The feeling that he had came too far to do so overwhelmed the urge, still, the internal battle didn't collapse.
Black Death: If life throws you hotdog's you gain weight.
NOOOO! Hotdog's. The words coming from the hallucination seemed like a stab in the back, a bitter taste in the mouth, a real fuckin' cheap shot. If you can't admit your problem, you can't fight it... but that was just wrong. A car broke the dusty image of Black Death, it came at mass speeds towering over his field of vision and running him down. A shower of screams filled the streets, agonizing pain took a dump on his chest and he squirmed and ached in horror. The car stopped feet away from the accident, it went into reverse and backed it's way to the scene of the crime.
Hit and Run'er: Good. You're still alive.
Expected the guy to maybe confront his own terrible doings with concern, call for help maybe, instead, he sat behind the wheel and smiled.. a big grin with mustard tainted on the corners of his mouth. How could he? thought the road kill fighting for breath, a broken sharp pointy rib tearing a hole in his breathing utensils.
Hit and Run'er: I feel so bad about this.. um, here.
One Monday Night Slam ticket flew out the passengers side window and the edgy corner harpooned into his eyeball. ooooh. Biting down on his tongue till he tasted blood.. and that was the last thing he tasted.
