The sound of cars in the distance. I lie on a mattress. The most jagged in Hell. Head over the side face down in waste paper basket. The waste paper basket metallic rusting contains an astonishing volume of vomit to which I contribute munificently. Vomit scorches inside the nostrils coats throat tongue lips chin.
Sucking back spittle and flashes of light retching everything stabs any attempt at movement immediately punished with more of the same bile poison stomach muscles shriek.
Splash of tequila no place time name only spasms spewing and this soul-destroying bed of nails.
It goes on forever.