Beautifully tragic:
warm, but smothering.
Home-like, but woeing.
The sight of the bed that
swallows his hopes and
dreams.

Each day, I lose glimpse of
his fight: his endless struggle
of heart, mind and body and the
15 inch foam coffin that holds him
hostage to the world inside his head.

"You're worthless. You don't matter..."
Screams uttered by the supposed
"supporting team." Who the hell are they to you anyway? Flesh and blood
mean little when his financial value
is higher dead than alive.

The greatest fear, sitting in the hearts
of viewers (idle victims of the scene
unfolding), is the penultimate event.
The second to the end: for it is the one we will never see coming. The last "good" one before the worst one.

The last night that the bed holds him tight before the bullet squeezes him tighter.