I am going to drown in a sea of distended limbs. They're running over the train tracks. The limbs. They're bundled up around the third rail, you see that? They grasp at the wheels as they run on by and slice their fingers. It's oddly beautiful, isn't it? I'm going to drown in them. I'm going to drown in them again and again because it's the best thing for me to do. Why? Because it's the best thing for me to do. And then maybe when one of the trains comes on by it will slice me too.

Sometimes the distension extends from the balconies. Do you see that? Look how long they are. Running right down the sides of the buildings and into the gutters. Clustered in the gutters. The sewers. It's rank down there, isn't it? I don't understand why they choose to go down there instead of the railways. I think it's what they find more homely; their own personal places to get torn up with the muck. I can respect that; I'm that way myself. Perhaps I could be like one of them, though I think I tried once, and it didn't go well because the sewage clogged my lungs and my eyes and made me call my mom at three in the morning demanding something change. It could've gone worse, is all I'm saying.

Oh, can you reach in there now? I need you to do me a favor. I need you to unhook it there -- right, yeah, there, where the spine links around the lower. Alright. No. Closer. You need to make me break, you understand. You need to make me let myself out down there so come on! Don't be afraid of breaking a few things! It's easier when you rip and pull it out!

Do I have to do everything myself around here?

That's a rhetorical question. Don't answer it.

Answer it.
Answer?
Whatever.
Just let me drip down to the train tracks and let go of my bleeding torso already.