the dreams had gone away again, it may have been the bananas, but there was no way to be sure. last night, she left her shirt on and he didnt mind, probably because his dreams tasted like nacho cheese and olives and cigarettes. yesterday was alright, she supposed, but even her cigarette made her gag (it wasn't the only thing). tomorrow, the music would come to her and it would be different this time. or at the very least, she hoped, things would be brighter, if only for a short while.
there was a puddle on the floor, it could have been sludge, but it looked like blood, and the thought of sopping it up made her stomach rethink that afternoon's tuna melt. so she left it there, and it curdled and crusted, turned to dust, which, when kicked up by penguin at play became airborne, and was sucked right up into her nervous system along with all the other daily toxins. the particles drifted happily, slipping along her blackened innards, leaving behind trails of grime, a legacy of impending doom. in spite of this molecular crusade (or perhaps because of it), for what its worth, she didn't feel a thing.
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