There is dirt flowing through my veins, in my blood- it's not blood. It's like oil- filthy and slimy, there is dirt and grime and pieces of other people's flesh. It's all in my mouth- I can taste it, my foul breath. It's in my mind, throbbing through my brain...But I can't feel any more regret- no more. I am a dark and brittle eggshell that I want to crush- I want the crunch of veins and tendons, falling so easily like the rest of me into dirt and grime and oil, into somewhere below.