Whether in a Khaki suit or a pimped stripe. I'm a G for G and nuttin' else for life. You can bet your bottom biscuit. You get twisted if you dwellin' in my felon intuition (what up). Dying Diaries #3
He drops the syringe to the dirt and slides onto his right shoulder, head striking the park bench. His forearms hang dead in front as he views the gardens sideways and fucked up. His eyelids half closed, turning the scene into a smokey haze. His body is forgotten as he turns inwards to explore the shallow muck of his high. His synapses falter, the electrical impulses fizzle and sputter. What activity there is spews out muffled images, blanketed and dulled by the poison flowing through his veins. Self awareness has been sabotaged, all good memory is destroyed alongside the bad. The soul attempts to take flight but is unable to extricate itself from the soup that was once his brain. Finally the brain spits its last message down the spinal column and the bowels relax. In the surrounding ether there are traces of other souls, no longer aware, no longer caring, blind, purposeless whisps. What is left of him joins the maelstrom, neither waiting for nor desiring salvation.