generic whore.

every night a crowd of the drunk held their glasses high to the melodic screams bestowed apon them. "close your eyes" she whispers. "make it last forever". he follows her orders. he'll never forget. her face has been permanently burnt in his mind like a mental etch-a-sketch.

the chorus continues. a smile greets his face, but when he opens his eyes it's all gone.

no band.

no fans.

no beer.

no her.

was it ever there? the ability to feel connected to every person in the room despite their morals, religion or beliefs never existed.
he looked around to acknowledge his surroundings.

a field.

with the greenest grass he has ever seen. the sounds of the singing birds cocked his brow. he turned in circles searching for a way out. all he saw was a panoramic view of the past.

a repeated picture.

he stops, but the world keeps going.

he falls to his knees, watching the scenery turn to one unrecognizable blur. nausiating.

everything turns to black.

blacker.

blackest.

it's over.