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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