No hope, no prayer, no nothing left in a world save for silence, dripping free like honey off the comb.
He loved the way it clashed and crashed, scraped against the shores of his mind, rearranging it’s shape like the sands.
He loved the way wishes were fucking fishes, and more often than not, no one got jack shit to show for themselves.
Mordecai loved everything and nothing, hated the lives that waltzed past him, as if they were better than him. That’s how they looked, anyway – looked at him like he were a disease, something communicable, forever incognito, because they didn’t get the plots and plans he made for their sorry selves when they weren’t watching.
He strolled up and down the sidewalks of this town, tattoos and tortures, tempting the whores with a lewd look, and ripping out hearts that should’ve stopped beating long ago.
Mordecai loved this place, hated its face, wanted to skull-fuck it night after night after he finished forgiving the failures with the barrel of a gun.
Because wishes were fishes, and he makes them shit in one hand, while he cut off the other.
Thieves, the lot of them.