One last time

I don't know how long its been.

Time means nothing anymore.

Did it slow down?

Did it speed up?

If it did both am I now in the same place in time I would have been had I not just injected myself with heroin?

Why is it so temporary?

Why is my happiness so temporary?

Why do I need a chemical substance to feel happy?

Why don't people make me happy?

Why can I not feel joy about life?

Why do I feel anything at all?

Why do I let myself live if I have no life?

Who built the first house?

What did look like?

How long did it take?

Did they know they were building a house?

How many times did it take before they found out how to do it right.

I could build a house.

You dig a hole.

You put the foundation in.

You build some walls.

You put in some floors.

You put on the windows.

I would have stained glass.

Maybe it would show John Lennon getting shot.

Then the roof.

The plumbing and electrics.

Damn. I need to change TV Channel.

I hate Ty Pennington.

Why can't someone come in and makeover my life.

I have a job.

That I'm doing badly.

I just can't seem to focus.

I need to focus more.

I need to get a new lens for my brain.

Maybe I should try acid.

I'm crying.

Why am I crying?

My soul is sad.

My mind is sad for soul.

Why are my mind and soul different?

How does that work?

Exactly?

Was my soul randomly floating by when I was born?

Did my body act as some kind of conductor?

Or a trap like in Ghostbusters.

I loved that movie.

It's so funny!

I am the key, says the funny guy with glasses.

I am the gate, says nearly naked Sigourney Weaver.

Yeah I noticed. I was eleven.

Wouldn't blink twice now.

When did my innoncence disappear?

Was it worth anything anyway?

What time is it?

I knew it. Time's up.

Everyone's gone home. Only a few left probably.

I guess I should have caught up with my backlog.

What's the point though.

It's just paper.

With stuff on it.

It's not real.

It can't kill me.

This one may be a contract to one person, but to me...

There.

It burns just like the wood its made from.

Now tell me that contract is real. Even though it doesn't actually exist any more.

No, wait. It does still exist.

It's ashes.

The ashes are the contract.

That bit between my fingers could be the

signature.

Why am I wet?

Oh, the sprinklers.

Feels good.

Why don't they believe I'm okay?

Security guards! The only way those lard-asses could keep anything secure is by sitting on it.

I'm not a junkie! I'm not!

It's just stress relief.

Real stress relief.

Those squidgy balls just give me RSI.

Let go!

What did I do wrong?

Why aren't they listening to me?

I work here.

No, I do.

They can't just dump me out here.

Shit!

That's the end isn't it?









Character: Heroin Plot: Unlocks Resolution: Brand

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