sherlockholmes
My heels are raw and bleeding. I shouldn't have stepped on that glass. Again. It wasn't my fault. And now my
Almost instantly the world blurred. Everything stirred and shifted. Colours changed and moved in ways I had never seen before. Almost had cost me my life. I had almost made it to the edge. We were ALMOST the best. I was almost positive that we were going to be okay. I was wrong. Almost isn't certain. Almost is vague, and due to almost, I watched my best friend die in my arms. Almost makes life a sort of game, a gamble. You say almost, and it sounds so sure. It's a false security, and almost landed me in a hospital for three weeks after the accident. Almost isn't good enough. Almost kills. Almost? Almost is a word.
The barber sits back and examines his handy work. You can hardly recognize the man from before he walked it. He stands up and brushes the hair off of the man's shoulders.
"All done. What do you think?" The man turns to look in the mirror.
"You did wonders. You and the rest of your team always manage it so well. I can't even recognize myself."
"I think that is rather the point Mr. Harding." Harding smiles and then shakes the barber's hand,
"Thanks Tom."
"Always a pleasure sir. Where are you headed this time?"
"Top secret, but I can tell you it's somewhere new. I've never been there before. I'll bring you back a souvenir if you want." The barber smiles.
"Much obliged sir. Pleasure doing business with you. Good luck."
"Don't jinx it Tom. I'll pass my compliments on to the man in charge, you might be busy very soon."
"Thank you Mr. Harding. Until next time?"
"Until next time Tom." Mr. Harding nods and leaves the building, leaving the reformation crew to clean up the mess of giving him a new face.
Sage. I don't like this word because I don't know anything about sage, and I can't think of anything that I could write about sage. I know that it doesn't smell very good, kind of like rosemary, and I know that people use it to ward demons or evil spirits away. I knew a kid named Sage once, he wasn't very nice, I didn't like him very much. Then again, I don't like many people, I don't get on well with them.
It's not an easy thing, inventing. It takes loads of patience, and thought, and things like that. It takes skill, and cleverness and an assortment of quick thinking and careful thought. It's also hard to be the father of an invention. I speak from experience. It's one thing to love your work, and a completely different for others to love your work enough to make it famous. It's how the fifth industrial revolution started, and how life on Earth was changed forever. It's how everything changed and living on Earth became impossible. It's how life amoungst the stars became normal. All this because of one single idea. My idea. The world changed, and everything with it.
Tangled in the delicate web of a spider, a fly struggles furiously. The idiotic fly had flown unknowingly into the nearly invisible web of the spider, who was slowly making his way across the threads to reach it's meal. As I sit here watching, I can't help but feel like way of life. We fly into things that we can't imagine and then try as we might, we can't escape the spider who descends to feast on us.
The sock is made out of wool. The only reason I know that is because it tastes like sheep. I don't like sheep. They smell and are just pure ugly. Soft? Maybe, but not my type of animal. I prefer cows, cows may smell, but they have produce much more useful stuff, like meat, and milk. And cows are just prettier, I want to race cows at some point, it would be a laugh you know?
What am I going on about? Some idiot kidnaps me and all you think about is farm animals?! That's typical. Typical me. I can't open my eyes, and resolve to thinking about wool again. I have a sweater made out of wool, it's itchy, but warm.
With a dramatic flare, he throws the door open to expose the dead body. He seems so happy about the fact that he knows something that everyone doesn't. They inch inside the room to get close to the body, find out what happened, find out who did it, find out what's going on. Obviously he knows something, the way he keeps bouncing around, all giddy an happy. The ponce.
Drowning. Drowning, my lungs are filling with this substance. It's thick, thicker than water, thicker than anything. It's hot. It's drowning me. I try to scream but suddenly my mouth is filled with the delicious taste of coca and sugar. If I'm to die, this is surely the best way. It's chocolate, and it's drowning me. But now it doesn't seem so bad this drowning business, because I'm drowning in chocolate.
Contemplation.
Is it really worth it? Living?
I don't know. The cool weight of a gun in my hand assures me that it's alright. That it's okay.
One pull and it's over. In a flash.
No one has to deal with me.
No one will miss me.
I can sing and dance and play all day.
And I can do it freely.
One pull, a little pressure, and I'm gone.
I put the muzzle to my temple, and close my eyes.
The sink isn't comfortable, but soon, I won't exist to notice it.
One pull, a little pressure.
10:15 on a Saturday night, sitting in the sink, gun to my head.
End this.
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