on the bathroom floor

See now, taking a thousand collapses won't work at all if you have the same nagging load on your shoulders, heart beating so hard until you feel like your bolster's alive and missing your mother bear real bad. Bad.

Time is tick tocking away so quietly with the draw of every eyelashy curtain and switch offing of every light and feeling just content is a source of contentment no more.

You want to pummel everything carelessly and scrap off the icky bits whole, wipe that bloody slate clean and let that head sink deep into the sack.

But God sez no.