Stunned, Charles stood there with a vacant expression.
The radio buzzed and shook the air.
With a stereo in her hand
And a knife in mine, she'll be
Mine, mine, mine!
Whose will she be?
The background vocalists chimed in.
Yours! Yours, yours, yours!
With dull steps, The Photographer made his way towards the machine that was inexpensive to his craft.
It was like him.
Obsolete.
Mine, mine, mine!
"No, no, no."
His whimpers sounded like the mourning of a dog.
His head spun around, his gaze shook before it wandered.
Yours, yours, yours!
"No, no, no."
His legs faltered, shaking under the weight of his own skinny self. Vertigo kicked in, and dry retching began.
His world spun around, and so he spun around.
Round and round.
Mine, mine, mine!
Again, and again.
He clutched his head and stretched his back, groaning at the ceiling.
