Sip it. It tastes like crap, whatever it is. When I am stupid enough to flatter myself by thinking that I taught myself how to steal a slice of freedom, I crush my joints into the stiffness of the old strait jacket I get tucked in whenever I feel that my next step might flow in the air. Which grief could justify my arrogance? I can’t be fooled by free will, it is a waste sentence. Free will is just another unfortunate circumstance, which only increases discomfort in weak throats. My lips have been sore and cracked for a while now; my eyes too.
Coffee. Words that don’t come out anymore. Shout which you lurch in your stomach, heavy and unpalatable, bubbles of horror and shudder crack into the membrane whittled by bare words and tardy food, coffee and coffee, wine and beer, vodka and gin, weeps and whining, swallow, swallow, swollen, look, look, leak on the window. Here it is, it isn’t it. Hear it, it isn’t it. This keyboard is not a claviature. Weep, don’t weep. You cannot, there they are, they see you. They watch you. You will wait. Wait as you will, no one waits for you behind the door. You can leave, anytime you will, don’t look back or consider drawing back, you cannot, you will not, those sprained overstrained ankles of yours collapse off bricks, crush into the pavement, crumble onto kerbstones. Drool is gliding between the mauve fuzz snuggled by your frozen lips, vomit is expected, there is no vomit, there’s nothing to vomit. Everything is going as planned, your stomach chews on everything banned. You would like to do more than survive. You would at least like to survive.