on the ground and wet with blood i managed to move my right shoulder just enough to free my arm. the sunken cavity that used to be my chest was tender, and the nerves and muscle were having some considerable difficulty following orders. i made an attempt to push myself up, but the act was completely ineffective. my body was begging for change on Wall Street.
normally, i would tasted the dirt at this point, which would turn into a light brown paste in my mouth. it would taste like the earth had not been kissed by rain in years. it would remind me that life was a beautiful passing egret and that i was just a guy with binoculars. if you want to, feel free to plug in any metaphor here that you like.
this time was different. after dozens upon dozens of gaping shotgun wounds and dozens upon dozens of last moments, there was an air about this i hadn't expected. was my final minute alive mocking me? when did the familiar sucking vacuum of oblivion become so damn smug?
the ground was hot and wet, but it wasn't my blood. it was raining.
normally, i would tasted the dirt at this point, which would turn into a light brown paste in my mouth. it would taste like the earth had not been kissed by rain in years. it would remind me that life was a beautiful passing egret and that i was just a guy with binoculars. if you want to, feel free to plug in any metaphor here that you like.
this time was different. after dozens upon dozens of gaping shotgun wounds and dozens upon dozens of last moments, there was an air about this i hadn't expected. was my final minute alive mocking me? when did the familiar sucking vacuum of oblivion become so damn smug?
the ground was hot and wet, but it wasn't my blood. it was raining.
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