Bitter fortunes, bitter tongues, laid to waste among the entrails of dead birds who have now become maggots who will then become fly's and will fly once again.
It takes a while for it all to move and shift, to become un-bitter.
There's always a way to leave when you lie to yourself and lay on the ground, face down, in a puddle, with just enough air to breathe but mostly you're just water vapor now.
The sun is hot and beating on you. Kicks you in the ribs and spits on you.
You are vapor.
Some needles come spinning in and out of your skin. They take from you.
Red string and a wobbly violin line gently come cross hatching into the plane giving depth to places where there was none. Making some of it impossible to even travel to because the pressure would crush you before you got to the bottom.
Have you ever felt that kind of pressure? It will literally destroy you so that there is nothing left to identify.
You are vapor.
The bottom holds a million variations of one simple flavor, and it is bitter.
Until you die, your way down will be bitter.
This is the way it is.