Don't Know no Witness Until Now.

The coffee maker sputters thick black slower than a dripping IV. The sink and tub drains are stubborn too. Toothpaste spit floats closely to my face or filthy water blankets my feet. All is displaced, grimy, intolerably maddening.

We stagger into the garage taking hold of vinegar. Our kitty pool (printed by kitty's and umbrellas) is overflowing with jug-like containers. We hoard these containers rudely and embarrassingly because desperation is this way. I once pushed a farming man from a bridge since he possessed what I wanted.

We unscrew the caps, give a whiff, make the face and douse ourselves in the solution. Rather than unclogging what surrounds us, we drench our bodies. It's like playing with the hose in the summertime. He keeps pouring it in my eyes and they are burning from my face. I note his glass cut hands and I decontaminate them. This isn't a game of dare, rather it is how we are who.

We laugh instead of admitting the acidulous agony. I am powerfully delirious. I have been living from vinegar, and I am accustomed to this sensation, but no one has ever engaged in this sort of behaviour with me.

"I was in a curious mood that night, weary yet restless, eager yet impotent to seize the object of my search, and full of haunting images that would not stay to be reproduced...I slowly became aware of a disturbing influence whose power invaded my isolation, and soon took shape in the uncomfortable conviction that someone was looking at me."