Solamente muero los domingos...

The raw crackling voice carries over the hushed millions. Breathing is suspended.

My eyes are closed, my eyes are shut tight, shutting out the universe, the nothing, the death and dying. The prison walls surround us, the guitar drowns out the screams of the missing, faces on a wall, a little death, I hold my breath, a blue Sunday, where there are no more stays of execution. Swallow. Dangling, circling, out of body above the bright blue ocean, above the crashing waves and the famished sharks.

The lights explode through the thin membrane of flesh that cradles my eyeballs, and the roar and rush fade almost as quickly, angling in from above, up here where we perch, up here where there is no tomorrow and no yesterday, only a now that means less than nothing, a now with no anchoring, a now that compromises its very own existence.

Gulp. Swallow. Opening eyes up into blinding light, the incessant rays of the early morning sun that rival the blaze of the rage in the forest, flaring in the dark, spitting ashes into the night that trails behind. Standing up, with wobbling knees, trembling hands, aching lungs, aching heart, to see into that pit, the darkened abysmal cavity of all that once stood erect.