“How do I know if I give good head?”

“Well, If you gave me dome I could tell you…”

Blonde hair hanging limp, mechanically curled, like dead snakes. Eyes bristling with dull insecurity, mildly conquered and yet exposed by the glare of intoxication. Words slurring, truth oozes from minds like sewage… a raw, revolting sewage that smells of abuse. When the eyes grow dull, the acrid stench isn’t so wretched. Perception closes and the memory releases, lowering the pressure for a short time.

“Wa… but I want to know if I give good head.”

“You’ll never know unless someone tells you.”

“Here? But I think I might be too drunk to give good head.”

She walks with a slacking gait, walking under orange lights, walking through shadows. She surrenders her will to haze, to people, to society. The hurt is too much. To truly think work require effort, which key people have proclaimed that she does not have the strength for. A self proclaimed prophecy, she becomes a slave to her sultan. She lowers her pants and urinates openly on the grass.

“Do you think I’m fat?”

And so the dance continues, a superficial reality in which none care for others beyond what can be retrieved for themselves. Are they dying to live, or living to die?