In the grief of his seventies, cheap whisky sits him down to pray. 'We're all monkeys Amen', he stood his knees and back cracked, he popped out his meds – mostly for psychotic disorders – Lithium – Prozac – Depacote and a accumulation of anti-convulsants. He took them down with a swig of Whiskey, and collapsed back into his chair. Bitterness burning his lips. The toilet shivers, it's full of insects – earwigs, lice, centipedes, spiders and beetles, fat blue flies hover lazily above. He has little us of the bog - but for pissing, he's had chronic constipated for decades. Probably down to his Morphine habit he's enjoyed all his life. Unceasing confinement in this infernal room have scrambled his brain. His fridge is clean and Holy, in there where his vials of Morphine chilling along with the works. Vivid visions of pink poppy fields filled his mind. A lifelong nihilistic hate of snivelling humankind has kept him alive this far so he maintains his philosophy. He opens his fridge, removes a vial and syringe then returns to his chair. His arms are galaxy off purple track marks – he sucks up the Morphine and slides in into his neck with perfect precision pulling back the plunger blood combines beautifully with the Morphine before he slowly pushes the plunger down – a wash of pleasure flows through him as his eye balls transform into soft white boil eggs - gazing at the ceiling, towards God and St-Peter.