dying old

hi again, silent readers. it's malice, 25 minutes from his escape from butcher bay. daydreaming about going home. deafeningly empty home that it is.

sipping some scotch.

firing up the old projector to watch a few netflix movies on my wall.

answering my fan mail in a ripe stupor.

home. my safe place. my concrete prison. i cannot get there fast enough.

boy, you people were quiet today. i expect you to remedy that overnight, while your busy lives quiet down and while my quiet life dulls into blissful inebriation.

sweet dreams, shy readers. don't let the bed ghost keep you up tonight...