There is salt on the table an whipped cream in her hair. It seems so confusing but that's all that's really there. Where the red cup tumbles that's where death will come. It all seems so simple, when it's really just begun. Can you believe that this is happening? Can you yell any more? The crack of ice, hum of machine, "hello" and then silence. Writing on plastic, I suppose it's better than ink on skin. But maybe times are changing, has it really started sinking in? I don't know so you tell me. Maybe that's all I care to see. Help me save these cracked up fingers, made through rusty knives. Maybe it's not too late to save yourselves from lies.