The blood seeped through the door so suddenly that we all had a hard time comprehending the foul stench of dripping mucus and boats made out of bone chips that gilded like boastful nightingales across the crimson puddle.
What do we strap ourselves with? Someone should have shouted, but all remained silent as my sister Tam-Tam slurped her pea soup with the pouty lips of an 80 year old cock sucker on a cold, slow night. The bombs were coming from the far left and I could see Little Sister coughing up paint in her hands, squinting her eyes as orange, yellow and dark plum violet oozed between her finger form cups. As the miscarriage of the rainbow sat ideally in her lap I began to stare off to the east. The once complex territorial graffiti that was framed on each wall began to melt and slide. Our own markings becoming cryptic and alienated right before our eyes.
Without a word we all stood at the same time. Tam-Tam set aside her rusty spoon and Little Sister smeared the colors over her tattered pants and I stared, hypnotically at the bloody pulps of soft tissue and firm meat that swirled like a forgotten stew on our floor. We strapped and stood, bold and unknowing, armed and calm. Ready for something we couldn't define but we dare not look in the mirrors.