Incessant, ceaseless are my mutterings.
Mumblings of no worth.
Simply enough variation to hold my attention, as I fight to wrestle it back.
I can no longer take it and my hand finds it way to the back of my head.
And like glass. the surface shatters.
Below the red wine, I find peace.
Muffled, slow sound drifts around my eyes and ears.
My murmers become soft heavy echos, and I may hold my attention to my chest.
I force my head, denying air
This is not a premeditated murder
Ceaseless muttering drove me to this