Lay in The Hive on yellowed old sheets - around me the mummer of voices don't know if they are real or my imagination cause the meds are kicking in and I tell you they are a real loo loo! I lay there anyway on my bunk and at that moment my skin gets all tingly like ants the old saying goes or something like it but it's crawling - just the cheeks anyways - on my face not my ass, you goofy bitch. My arms are a different matter - they take on the weight and substance of granite - slabs of solid granite that I can barely move and I find this fucking curious because the next moment they are bone thin - feel like they are void of skin and muscle and veins. I stretch my fingers and hear the joints pop and snap and I look at my hand but they appear normal. The voices they - they continue to whisper. Drift off into a sleep and I dream of a tomb stone on a hazy gray rain can't make out the inscription on the heading. What does the dead say? Can they talk? My eyes blink open and I feel sluggish - like I am drunk or something.

I get up all dizzy like and walk out onto the balcony and light up a Lucky Strike. The sun is bright like it is late in the afternoon. I stand - blink and I wait. Wait to do something.

Something.