Pitch black. It’s all encompassing and suffocating me. Choking me with the hints of musty upholstery, iron, and mildew. I’d barter what’s left of my soul on a roulette table that when you factor in the rusted metal and convulsing of my lungs in panic, spilled alcohol, and sweat you’d get a recipe for disaster. It’s so tangible I can taste it. I’m pissed I didn’t see this coming. I’d become too c...