Rather no sleep at all than three hours of sleep and eyes droopy as any fuck. Poor old sod. December screams freeze! I turn to find a wailing banshee with self-inflicted tinnitus. One slap and back on my feet. I'm sick and tired of these sacrifices. They laugh, I laugh, every single one of the bodies laugh for reasons unknown. Reach the slums -- only to find it left by itself, to loot and plunder by the vanguard of ideas and proposals. There it is. Her smile, he remembers. But why? I shouldn't. I couldn't. Of all the baddest of bad luck.