She sat herself down on the curb, and spat onto the brown of the concrete, head in her hands, her tongue evaporated and switchblades pushed up through the ground. It was sharp, this sound, of wet tunnel foam, this froth from the ground. Her neck cricked and the shadow of her muscles shivered at the sight of the switchblades reflecting the sun. A last resort hammer fell from the sky onto the foam that was a part of her thigh, her left hand gripped it, it fell apart and a blade wedged under her knee, the pain and the head of the hammer were echoing song. It was a bad day, a time to be strong. Pumping in breath she flicked off her leg which flew with a wet tail of red. She pushed herself up, looked at her path and looked to the sky.
“Today is a bad day to die”, and hopped her way home through the rain.