The average man thinks of sex once every 52 seconds. I am not an average man. I think of killing myself once every 52 seconds. It’s the ink, I tell myself. It is the ink that marks my face, my neck, my back that tells me to end it all. It is the ink that courses through my veins, the ink that my father forced into my life that guides my every action. It is the ink that led me first to K and then to the boy, Reason.
The ink speaks to me. It tells me that I will not see another sunset. The ink tells me that if I am to save myself, I must save the boy first. It says to me as clear as midway barker on a spring afternoon that I must obey K’s every command. The ink lies as much as it tells the truth.
The ink and I are the same, and I cannot trust one more than the other.— May 4th
From the Journals of Squish the Klown
The ink speaks to me. It tells me that I will not see another sunset. The ink tells me that if I am to save myself, I must save the boy first. It says to me as clear as midway barker on a spring afternoon that I must obey K’s every command. The ink lies as much as it tells the truth.
The ink and I are the same, and I cannot trust one more than the other.— May 4th
From the Journals of Squish the Klown
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