text: They are looking at me. Why? Why won't they stop? They are scared, I feel it. They are anxious. My hands are hugging this mug, so... Tight. So Strong, but so soft. The neon lights reflecting from the windows hurt my eyes, and so do the headlights, and the sirens. The flashing red, the flashing blue. The hot steam caressing my eyeballs, it's awful. The heat burning my hand, and burning my palms, my flesh. The smell, Absolutely terrible. This cafeteria, it's too bizarre. Something feels odd. I feel odd. I feel out of this place, like an outsider. My hands... They bleed? The floor under me. It's covered with blood. My head, aching like hell. It's agony. Why are they looking at me? What are they looking at? What do they see that I don't? What do they want? What could they want? Their eyes. I can't see them. They hide them from me. Looking anywhere but at me, but I feel their gaze nonetheless. Their eyes see me or see through me. My hands are shaking, the puddle of blood growing under me. Is this what it feels like to... Have I gone mad? Is this a dream? Must be, but it hurts. It hurts so much, i can barely breathe. Somebody could help... Nobody will. Fucking hell! It burns, and it feels like a knife in my brain. I can feel it, etched into my mind. The stainless steel rotting by my thoughts. And I can feel something else. It feels like bullets penetrating my skin, breaking my bones and scorching the tissues, my muscles, my flesh. But there is no knife here, and no bullets. His body flops onto the floor from the barstool, the body of the man who was once next to me. Now he is on the floor, motionless. In the puddle, of his own blood. But nobody moves. No one wants to help him? Should I be surprised? I certainly won't do anything. Why would I help a stranger? But then, why would they? Somebody should do something. Call someone. Did they? These lights, make them stop. These sounds, they should cease to exist. I think he's dead. Just twitching on the floor like a fish. It's funny, is it not? I laugh at him. Feels good to finally laugh. But it's no laughing matter. It's horrible. I should be ashamed. But does it matter? He's dead. Have to be. After all, there is a hole in his head. There would be a hole left in his head, if I were to pull out the knife... I should do that. Would be interesting to see inside, to see how different they are. How different I am. I should grab the knife. It is mine, after all. I grew to like those looks they give me. Even if I only see dead, and empty eyeballs, with meaningless animals behind them. But j feel better now. I see through them, not the other way around. And those bullets? Went through them, not me. Penetrated them, not me. Broke their bones, not mine. Scorched their tissues, and their flesh, not mine. I shot them. And it felt good. Wouldn't you have done the same, if they were staring at you? I mean, it would've been all right. They could've lived. But they stared. At me...