The chest feels heavy with a coat of thick, red paint.
It drips slowly to the ground, forming a pool on the linoleum.
You slip and fall, crashing hard as your head begins to feel woozy.
Pick yourself up.
Shake yourself off.
Clean up the paint and start a new day.
Tomorrow it happens.
The next day.
The next.
Stirring paint, dripping, slipping, sipping from the spring of life that causes so much pain and happiness and insanity all at once.
It’s what people life for.
And what they die for.
But rather than ruin a perfectly good floor.
I propose, instead, that we paint the town red.