Under the skin

A carrion smell, as if a dog had been left to die down there. As if that dog were slowly decomposing. Yeah, a dog. That's funny, isn't it ?

No, rats haven't invaded my foam mattress. I did find spiders, as big as my fist, crushed under the weight of my sleep, but it doesn't smell like anything, a spider.

Often, I drink my coffee while thinking about suicide the way you think about taking a shower. Then another, still thinking about it. Then a dozen more, until nightfall. And my day passes, and the smell lingers. Like an old memory, rotting in my brains.

My neighbor is sunbathing, that whore humming like the Snow Queen right across from my window, that bitch who deserves... a dog ​​to be unleashed on her throat. When she's not humming, she's on the phone with another bitch who should be dead too. I hear them. I hear everything they're saying to each other; the walls are as thin as the pages of the Old Testament. None of what they're babbling makes any sense.