midlife crisis or a shitty hand

got lost
against the background
of utter
squalor&depravity;
    like flu.

if you know what I'm talking about, fine
if not, well, fuck.

in my line of killing
one can never be sure
&
who cares
anyway.

smoke fills my home,
I reek of primordial life,
of destitution.
   voices vibrate the glass,
young, scented& desirable;
    hormonal sounds.
a failed psychopath, i ignore the stimuli.

thursday will come.
eventually.
&
I'll add some more muck to the mural
of the real..

can't fucking wait.