It would be nice to no longer have niggling issues, to get some sleep in a roadside ditch next to a standing streetlamp, its soft orange globe of warm vapor making me look like an angel in the tarnished-like reflection of a shop-window, a skull colored moon above watching me.
My ribs are exposed and I am hollow, suffocated and quiet as a beach full of blue rain-clouds. The sewer rats crawl over me in rivers of greasy black clots and a legion of horrible knots and just like a dead dog I am befriended.