Blood stained sheets, the smell of **** and ****, creases in white linen , never looked so colorful endless rivers of tears and anguish, dreary flowers in drool stains, if sheets could talk. . . they would beg "please stop" above a never ending bedrock of old mattress springs, that groin and creak, a tectonic shift of emotions, disturbed by a thunderous voice " clean yourself up, sorry"