A treatment of affliction, the patient residing in squaller. Begging for temptations, to lure the worm of its hook. The segmented self, eating of the remains of a soiled past, the chair holds the personage in a deprecated state. A faint glimmer whimpers from the drooped eyelid, as sleep takes the dreamer away. Hours pass as some light manages to burn its way in through the tattered shade, the dust settles, bleaching the window pane, disinfecting any beauty left over from the day. The stain of a life never lived remains draped upon the floor, as the janitor arrives, removing the unknown from the scene.
– Josh Fleming