(no subject)
I'm sick of the pillow wars. I've lost hope that the stems of my feathers i've gathered in my pillow case from their routine clippings of my wings will leave tiny scratches in their skin. Those two are impenetrable. My arms are warn from thrashing, clenching the case's cotton edges. I'm tired of lying awake at nite as the stems prick through to my brain. Tonight I'm going to take out Mrs. White and Mr. Green in the Billiard Room with the revolver.