[He manages little more - little more than a stunned, startled look down at the trio of femurs that have sprouted out from his ribcage. Can almost see the chain of red 9's unfurling across his front. There's nothing - no words to be said, no hastily-guzzled condiment to stain the tile so he can work in that final, fatal punchline.
There's nothing but d u s t.
There's just so much of it.
And the pieces of him wick away into nothing as the rasp of words drag out from a lack of an esophagus - words that have not and never will be formed.]
no subject
There's nothing but d u s t.
There's just so much of it.
And the pieces of him wick away into nothing as the rasp of words drag out from a lack of an esophagus - words that have not and never will be formed.]