The tea tastes like a mix of rusty metal and salt, probably a result of the many bullets lodged in Ned Kelly's prostate. Normally this wouldn't be pleasing, but this time the flavour served to reinforce the feeling that I was now floating across the sea in a large tin bath. My thoughts echoed from the walls of the bath, creaking thoughts; scraping thoughts; slow, indistinct tapping thoughts. Waves pulled the bath up, catapulted us into the air, caught us again, dragged us below with a twist and a turn before we popped back up at the surface, bobbing gently. Wary that we might be taken by the waves again I filled my lungs deep and for a brief moment found myself still standing by the Steakhouse, crouching slightly but other than that unmoved. I tapped my right foot clumsily on the floor and listened to the soft clap of boot on concrete.

My hands were now empty. Looking down I saw the syringe floating above my left forearm, supported by the needle which still disappeared in through the skin. The skin here carried a faint blue-purple hue, which could have even been an ink stain not quite lost during my last shower. My right hand was also now empty and ahead of me on the floor I saw the body of my mug, lying on the ground unbroken beside a shallow pool of tea.

It struck me that there was a normal response to this situation. This response would involve removing the needle and retrieving the mug. It also struck me that this is exactly what they would do and that this was one of the many examples of how I had reached an understanding of pleasure and purpose far beyond that of these humdrum passerbys. Another thought drifted into my head, this time it was a formless idea, unclear and maybe a bit dizzying but beautiful all the same. I felt like I was collapsing into my own core, cocooning my brain, eyes and voice within a little black box hidden somewhere behind my ribcage. The world was now being watched through binoculars, with me standing very far inside my own being. The people walking by were distant, silent, sprites on a computer screen, badly focussed versions of reality projected on a tiny grey wall. The people were ants.

At this point I moved backwards to a wall and lowered myself to the floor. Or maybe I just imagined it.

^ That's what I'm talking about! Dibs on next part.

My skin ripped open as I dragged it across the cold, jagged concrete. My head began to throb. The blood pulsating through the veins in my temple made a bass line. I began to dance, never moving, and started to sing, not a word coming from my lips. The contrast in seconds was an eternity. There was another sharp pain in my head and now on my hands. The pain wasn't felt, merely percieved as blasts of white light shooting through my body. I was being attacked. There were thousands of minute, black, warriors all over me. Their weapons were attached to their mandables. Razor sharp toothed little bastards were aggresive. They moved and flanked with military precision. A thick saliva dripped from their mouths and they burried their teeth into my flesh. The battle that ensued was no battle at all. It was a massacre. There was nothing I could do to fight back; I just lay there and let them have their way with me. I laughed hysterically as the pangs of pain traveled up and down my body. I felt every sensation traveling from one nerve ending to another. The weather cooled and lightning struck somewhere near by. The thunder came right after and lifted me into a new place. I awaited the rain that would fill my tin tub, carrying me down to the depths of my own aquatic rebirth. An old man that I never saw walked pass me with his head burried in his tough, wrinkled hands. He tried not to catch the eye of the man that lay bloody, bruised, and covered in ants.

I'll edit that later.