it looks black in the moonlight

sleep doesn't help if it's your soul that's tired

The corpse is you. It was always going to be you, because that is how things work in these eerie spaces. And so a smile blooms across your lips in the same way a knife might slip into flesh, and you pull the rug back further to view the body of work that wears your face. "Stabbed to death," you remark softly. "But there was a struggle." The shoe, the walls, the wonky clock.

"But why the rug...? Clumsy. Laughably so... unless the culprit merely wished to cover your face to stop you staring at them." Rising to your feet with fresh blood on your knees, you turn to examine the oranges with their blood print tattoos. "And why put these back?"

FINN