There is a room. Inside the room is a pad, written on the pad is an address. The address is my address. The writing is not mine.
There is a small scrap of paper. I eat the small scrap of paper. It is the first thing I have eaten all day.
People keep shouting at me as I walk down the street. I am supposed to be under cover. I am supposed to be invisible.
My tongue is too big for my mouth, my cheeks have swollen up. I can’t breath. I CAN’T BREATH.
I crash through a glass door, the door doesn’t break but the noise it makes is worse than anything I have heard for days, worse than a hundred fingernails slowly scraping down a blackboard. A tiny bell rings and I fall to the floor in a heap.
I have no idea where I am.
If I could only sleep
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4 comments:
Who are you tracking? Who pays your bills? Do you wear many hats?
You know I can't talk about the current cases in any detail, it's a dame and that's all I can say.
The clients pay the bills but I'm employed by an agency so I get a monthly pay cheque.
I also get my expenses paid (unless I got drunk and lost the receipts)
I do wear many hats (not at the same time) but I don't own a trilby if that's where this is going . . .
do you own a trilby?
no, I don't own a trilby
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