-=Dark_Angel=-, P.I.27 Jan 2004

The scent of death has been upon me for many years now, lingering intently about my groin, like the shining lobster that got wedged behind my fridge; a prawne-like vulture circling its prey. As the days come and go, and the green trees of youth fade to browne, I am left cold, and alone. Naked against the black oils of time, slick to the skin, and wishing my absurdly dry exoskellington had absorbed less balm. Death is before me now; death and oblivion. And then nothing will matter, save for the final cry of anguish as my Wheeled Chair hurtles off the cliff, and my wither'd backside soaks into dust, fusing with the very essence of nature, finally fulfilling its soiled destiny.