Wake up. You need to get up and do something. All you have done is slept. Get up. Wake up. You're wasting time. You're wasting yourself. You're useless. Get up. Wake up.

How many sleeping pills does it take to end this? Where can you purchase a gun, illegally?

Wake up! Get up!

Remember that time you were a child. The phase you had with melting pen caps on lightbulbs? I'd walk in your bedroom and hear a sizzle. You standing in front of the source. Black-handed. Sometimes red-handed. Really depending on which pen you tore apart.
My poor peculiar, special little boy.
It's time to wake up.
You must get up now.

A shot of Jack and a lager.
Thanks.
Ravenous gulps.
Scribbling on napkins.
Little one box ideas.
Multiple pens. Different ink.
Couple notebooks.
Exacto blade, one that looks like a carpenter's knife.
Some masking tape.
Never deny the importance of masking tape.
Keep drinking. Keep producing.
Try sleeping in the morning.
No need to wake up from this high. Walk home. Keep procuring ideas.
Take a nap on a desk.
Buy a bus ticket.
Wake up six hours away from home.
No bag.
Some money.
Look for a terminal.
Look terminal.

A heart is most likely a bed.
It stays asleep.

Home, in a bedroom.
Curtains drawn. Shoulders carrying the weight of the world. I'm tired and I can't move and my body hurts and my eyes keep tearing. And I'm curled up and I don't want to feel like this. And the incessant ringing of the phone is unbearable. And I'm being told to wake up, but I think I'm dreaming. And this reality is absurd. Any reality is absurd.
And maybe I'm not sleeping.
Who's to say I'm even laying here.
My eyes can't be open.
Both eyes are ******* closed.

Why can't I get up?