It is filthy, nasty, yet serene in visual desolation. It is silent, and still; it is the morning after. Fumes rise from the whiskey swamp. Food particles lay on stagnant shores absorbing the stench. Nothing is happening because this is the morning after. The fully exhausted gut muscles ache and churn in contamination. There is absence in the atmosphere with no sound: an absence of life and nourishment. Tomorrow’s murk is the physiological void, a black hole of malaise that influences the mentality. The fumes continue to rise, intoxicating thought capacity to the extent of disorientation. Tomorrow’s murk neither creates, nor does it inspire, rather it sucks life into instinctual loathing. It is a swamp-like cavity inserted in the belly of the cave. Dark and putrid, people only come here to die.

Its vile existence is paralyzing, drawing upon alcoholic bombardment of variety pack splendor. The vomit broken levee gave way until bile emerged creating small islands among the whiskey swamp. It’s sticky and the ceiling drips. Slow motion droplets only assume gravity is catalyst, but the impeding fumes rise in such thickness it creates friction.

Those who come here to die find themselves in shit smelling gum substance attempting to pace to death in bile. This swamp shows no pattern of malaise, but is rather defined by it. However base and decrepit tomorrow’s murk may seem its sophistication is as dense as its air. Tomorrows murk is tranquilizing in nature, we just call it recuperation—days upon days, wasted.

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