Stare at the sun.

Standing on the street corner, you make out a carriage, all shiny and gold. There are people sitting in it, maybe three of four behind two uniformed guards. The passengers are festooned in colourful regalia and long feathers. You look down at your hands poking out of grey sleeves. You feel the weight of the vest he gave you and its bulk under your jacket and you remember what he told you to do. He lied to you just as I lie to you now, told you it was worth it, that your sacrifice truly means something.

Well, it’s random and it doesn’t and you don’t. God doesn’t exist. Nothing happens after you die. This is a meaningless life. Is that what you want to hear? How real do you want to go? Let’s take a turn down Meat Alley, shall we?

Scrape away the subcutaneous fat. See the scum rise to the surface. Soak it up with a sponge then squeeze it into a bottle. Stick a phone down its throat and hey presto, you got yourself an improvised thruthing device. Dig up a chunk of ego. Lay it in the hole. Next time I’m patrolling your conscience, I’ll get my legs blown off.