I think I'm hemmoraging my creative juices from a big metaphorical and existensialist wound in my soul. I have my hands clasped against it, trying to stem the fluid loss and my fingers are getting slick and sticky from my futile attempts. I can see the plips on the ground, like some sort of macabre constellation and all I can think is 'Hey, that stuff shouldn't be on the outside...' and then, like the gas tank neglected at the last stop for three hundred miles I feel the last of it trickle out with nothing but the echo of it against the hollowness of my shell as a reminder. My hands shake and resist my commands and my throat turns to ash. My muscles twitch with an acidic sting, and my heart fractures, leaving me fallow.
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Most people have players which play both, but please let me know