a few minutes in the Theatre Toil

He saw the actor outside the theatre looking at a huge poster of his own face, whilst inside an old woman wobbled her face above a salad.
Trying to dry out. It rains. Hunkered into a hood, a black amphitheatre for the head. Wet car noise reverberates and stretches around the ears. A bus stop, its shelter, the graphite command on red brick, “Suck My Tit.” Drying out with triple chocolate and coffee, and a vantage point from which to stare.
Spoke loudly and alone, and continually, and with bare response, on and on. Forgot what he said, it was the turd of bloke.
Status: Looking to buy somut, though currently in the toil with a coffee and a sturdy flapjack, that will hopefully block up my pestering shitter.
Stuff: A bull-mastif and massive, a pile of skin folds on legs. I slash it open with my imagination and human babies spill from its gut. Mewling, slowly flexing limbs and fingers in the viscera. But before that I had just seen her blue eyes embedded in a phone.
He call him Lloyd. He call him himself. He’d just met a fellow sufferer, who had been for a week now without chemical shroud, without the prescription nails in his hands and feet. Fresh, excited, excitable. Vague voices had returned to the fellow, faintly mirrored in the conversations of those he passed. Slightly critical, though reassuring and familiar stigmata bled into his bounding brain. He was alive once again, without the doctors waged interpersonal chemical warfare bearing a normality down upon him. As he walked away I called to him with my own name, and he turned and waved back.