Shane spoke to the shadow. “Have you ever inhailed the fragrance of schizophrenia when it’s in a tight skirt?” Speaking in riddles. The shadow didn’t answer, once in awhile it answered like a clockwork coocoo. In Gotham City, beneath the fractured moonlight falling on the stones in an orchard of bones turning into puddles of liquid entrails
“Pass the bottle please,” Shane muttered to no in particiular…perhaps the conspicuous shadow in a tight skirt, begging to be fucked, like all women. Spilling its fragrance of schizophrenia from it’s cunt across the grave. Making the corpse of Mama groan, blushing against the bones of whiskey breath. The moonlight reflecting on a hollowed face of the damned, suffering from insomnia. And the corpse of Mama groaned again, “what are you waiting for? Put your tongue inside of me…” and Shane hesitated before answering. As the ribs of a fool slipped between syllables as he wa trying to buy a vowel.
