Good morning and welcome. Greet the sun and douse the lights. Your face is pale; your eyes are red. There’s not a drop of blood in your entire body.
In the corner, a muffled gurgling. Father Time slumbers drunkenly, heaving in on himself as the room clouds darkly. Consciousness sinks into an airy repose.
It’s a sin to wake, and it’s a sin to sleep. Go ahead and give it your all. You’ll see where you end up. Hunched on your side like Father Time.
They’re tailing us with greed in their faces, entangled in strings. Cut the strings, kill the man. It’s an ancient proverb.
An infant squeals in the empty streets, contorting his chubby hands. The buildings are boarded; the dust asphyxiates. Signs swing on the road.
Tear-stained letters across the page. Blood-stained thumbprints within the margins. Whose could they possibly be?
One last vision for good measure, before Father Time sobers up. It winks like a star before blanking out, and the pupils adjust again.