I
Screams burst like automatic gunshots from the sickly grey forest.
II
I wonder if you’re bleeding, but I don’t have time to come and look. The walls are threatening to dissolve if I can’t turn lies into gold fast. Your half-naked alchemist savior has been crucified by bong hits and day-time TV again. Stupidity gnaws at his corpse like a starved rat. The pain reminds me of a midnight toothache. That wise old b*****d who sleeps by the trash cans and drinks cheap wine from brown paper bags says that my depression is like setting myself on fire to keep warm. But, you said I was just tired.
III
Oh s**t. I can’t hear you screaming anymore. Am I dead, or are you?