The smell of the rotting fish from the line up of sofas makes me want to shoot something just to see the spiralling cosmic fireworks.
No such luck - the sunshine artiste drags me to the cupboard and shows me the corpse. The blue of her lips, the sorrow of her deadened reddened eyes, the twisted royalist purple in her painted façade...
I reel off the facts I notice - married, not a virgin, was carrying a gun-
"The killer had the gun," Sunshine says with a look on her face like melting snow and fallen ice cream on a family trip.
"Then the killer would have needed to shoot at himself from in here after she had shut the door to stop him getting at her." The face changes to a warm pancake and honey - comfort on a plate in early morning.
We travel down to a bar where we talk over the case and life. She states she's married. I honestly don't care anymore.
Reality is fleeting, and the cracks are showing. Exunt detective with distilled coffee.
I see the angel stood in the corner. The wings flutter ultraviolet behind the face with no features.
Need more coffee. All I get is more absinthe. But so long as I forget, I am happy.
I am secure in the room. The hexagonal sanctum sanatorium of my own creation. Time and space do not apply here - only logic and peace.
My distillation set for the coffee lies in the corner, assembled and ready. My hands shake with the addictive black blood of the earth roaring through my veins and through my aorta, berating my heart and raping my mind like a street whore.
Need. More. Coffee.
Painful, but worth it. The distillation is complete. Coffee. My poison of choice passes through my oesophagus and warps my brain again and again, every sip and new psychedelic twist on my own reality.
If I can call such a thing 'mine'? Perhaps I am God.