You can't eat. Food tastes like cigarette ashes in your mouth.

You can't function. Your body grows cold.

No amount of Valium will grant you the black nothingness between painful wakes.

Water trickles.

Why must you try so hard, Xinling?

Why must you fight it?

When you know true peace is just another cut away.

Water sloshes.

Just one more. Right between the first and the second.

Make it deep.

Make it count.

Slide the straight razor across your wrist like it's your last.

Water stills and blood drips.

ಌ

It's never Sunday but I don't mind much.

There's probably nothing special on Sunday.

ಌ