The incessant hum of the light sabre, the cyclical knocks of the prop. Ghostly voices drunk and high. Revelling in the shortest of breaths. Shallow gasps of air caught in between storms. The bass drops in an unidentifiable song, a swarm of locusts take to the air. Revelling still. The utter hopelessness of hope. Of therapy. Of whores. To dull the senses tonight would be to sharpen it some more. The lead drops down their bellies. The sulphur fills their lungs. To flakes and milds. To monks and pride. Jump on to the other side. Come on to the other side.