Phaedrus-42

it implodes on the walls of your skull and slides, sickly off your tongue like the body of a slug. when it hits the floor it is not quiet, not heavy nor dull but sharp as a slap and totters out of the room suddenly, they are disgusting and you are ill. there is no more room for regret, washed away by the slime coming out of your pores. the fault is yours