Let's dive right in before the earwig in my brain starts shitting.
We should really stop fishing into the ceiling.
Derivative.
My wife tells me the clown isn't there but the longer I stay on the job, the more real he feels to me. I can feel him breathing down my neck waiting for me to fuck up. Do you hear what I'm saying, kid? We're all in a prison of our own making. And you're going down.
