The metal is cold, shivers pierce the air.
Lead pours itself becoming one with the surface.
The tapping is constant, drowning the beat of the drums.
Smoke fills the room, concentrating itself in certain areas.
The table squeaks; wheels are turning.
A slight disturbance intensifies the restlessness.
Eyes begin to burn, hair is tossed to the side.
numbers carve the skin of our destiny.
A sigh of relief blows the smoke into another mad house.
Zippers slice the air; everything is moving.
Doors slam as another is brought to the inferno.
Chaos tortures us like animals.
Whispers fill the clouds of smoke as overworked machines shutdown.
The words are louder; the movement more often.
Bombs tick, eating away at sanity.
Tapping resumes persistently, frantically.
Frustration releases itself in three. Two.
It just isn’t the loneliest number anymore.