#52 The Waitress

My Limbs feel like lead. Someone seems to have rubbed sand inside my eyelids. Quite why they should do such a thing is beyond me, but in a world where reality TV is the most popular form of entertainment, I no longer question the motivation of humans.

My thought processes seem to be kinda disjointed.

Wait.

What was that?

Oh.

It’s just in my head.

Never mind.

So, yeah, my thought processes.

Kinda like syrup. Like treacle. Slow, sticky running treacle.

My nails are a mess.

So is this room come to think of it.

I should clean.

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nine − = 6