death sat on my knee and cracked with laughter.

It was a sunny day, an old man with a face textured like a crumpled up crisp packet, breath similar to the smog found escaping factory chimneys and fingers yellow from clutching onto cigarette's since the start of time (ironically in the same fashion he was now grasping for an extension on his poor excuse for a 'life') was sat on his porch paying thought to what he could do with his day. After becoming out of pocket in the 'thought' category he had decided.

He took a stool, and after plenty of contemplating, decided on placing it precariously close to a doctors. The old man found joy and happiness in observing people of the same level of health as himself while suckling on a bottle of cheap whiskey hidden by the brown bag it was wearing as an overcoat. It suddenly began to rain, and after glaring up to the leaking skies the old man tried to refocus his vision back on to the fast and thick flow of diseased people entering and leaving the doctors, only to find it impaired by death perching himself on the old mans lap, with a comforting smile and a touch as soft as I imagine pamela andersons touch to be.

"its time to go" whispered death into the gentleman's ear.

life it was you make it.