SchizOld Lady

I sensed the soul of my brother prior to his conception. At first, I thought it was the toddler version of spit-up, and then it presented itself as bodily gas before revealing itself to be a singular mental ward associated with pure evil.

That was the night I chose to never sleep again.

The crib was never a place for sleeping, the house was never a place for living; the sun was never for seeing. The night is my fully armed hammock, offering endless comfort, neighborhood accessibility, and volatile projectile trajectory.

The old lady talked to herself. Occasionally the three of us shared a conversation, but we each had our own agendas. All of them ended in gunfire.