I woke up this morning with a mouthful of blood. As it turns out, I ingested far too much of it yesterday. It wasn't your run of the mill blood, but rather it was thick like syrup or caramel without having the slightest hint of sweetness or doubt of the hideousness with which it clung to my teeth and tongue. No, this was not a normal day, for the days of choking on my own blood as I lay in semi-slumber are long gone yet remain with me each day in one manner or another. Now, as I sit in the glare of the fading sun, my eyes burn as they seek refuge in the darkness with the despair of a lost love and the desperation of a stalking ex. The way of the shadows is the path of least resistance at this point. The blood having dried and washed away is the cure for a desolate soul and but a dream of the lone soldier..."every time I step in the fuckin' booth I bleed."