Pain, if it could be called that? No no, that's not it.
Raw and humming.
Undercurrents of seared heat. That was it.
A thick drop of blood
explodes above the blank curve of the white marble sink.
A parabola, a topological space, a set of points clustered in equal
dimensions, a god damn
The drop gathers again after impact, diluted now by shards of old sinewed water. Gravity and momentum push it toward the plug hole, next stop?
The sewer and onwards to Dublin bay.
Face never ever clean.
Shadows, always shadows.
Morning - noon - night.
Pluck a clean razor, try again, 140 times until it's right.