The stigmatic waves crash against his fevered self.

His goatish sensibilities lurch in gastric agony.

His sleep-starved, junk-stuffed subconscious fills his head with rot.

As the intrusive sunlight beats down the hospitable doors,

He philosophizes in his flea-ridden bed.

What could be going through his foggy head?

Money, first and foremost.

Lust, second and staggering.

Disgust, third and tailing.

Regret, fourth and final.

His downtrodden body fights his electrical brain for sleep,

And ignominiously loses.

It is aware of the stalking sun perched high overhead,

Waiting patiently for the kill.