1 a.m.
There is blood everywhere. On my palms. Arms. Shirt. And the moribund face.
As the night rages on and the remote whistle of the watchman finally falls silent, time plays bloody hide and seek games. It’s a slippery, cunning bastard, I tell you. It stubbornly hovers around you and messes with your brain when you don’t need it, and slips away faster than Kardashian’s…
