InsaneJournal

He sends postcards to Whitey, Deimos and The Hobo. The pictures don't make any more sense then the scrawled barely legible writing on them. They aren't meant to be decoded, they don't mean anything at all. They are only temporary place holders. Things to remind the people he's left behind that he's gone apeshit crazy and having one hell of a time doing it.

Appearances have to be kept after all. The truth that he's trying to sleep is as boring as it is disappointing.

It never works this little venture of his. If he's lucky he passes out for a handful of minutes that seem to extend into forever thanks to the jumbled images of his subconscious. Big Tobacco doesn't sleep well but he does manage to dream. He dreams of a very different god from the one he serves now. A god long since dead and sometimes right before his eyes flutter open he feels a pang of pity. One that's instantly forgotten as he stares at the empty expanse of ceiling above him.

He knows his slept today. The smell of burned fabric, hair and skin make him feel queasy. If there's pain he doesn't acknowledge. This won't be the first time he's tried to fall asleep with a cigarette in his hand and it sure as shit won't be his last.