Vile photos and sounds play on 'palace' walls; mud in her fingernails form shapes of the night's sticky, grubby events- a twisted, ****** Rorscharch-esque blot. Knee-deep in grit and grime, soot on her feet, she sludges on, puking night after night on assorted side-walks with soaked, soily calves.
'Just pretty pictures' painted on a wall show her a true reflection of her mind; she seeks familiarity, hides/searches in them for herself. In distorted jumbles, she looks for her kind.
The splayed stuff stutter and splutter and stop and grind.
Insomnia and intoxication, a victim of lack of inspiration- life falls into a slow degradation.
Nothingness swallows all once more. She thrusts against the shoddy shut doors while the slimy sticky dross glues her shoes to gory floors.
-she trails off with a wince at the hat man's scoff.
Foul filth fills the squalid air; and sullied and smoky, sighing, she (s)tumbles halfway to sleep.