A shitty motel room. Shitty and gray. Fucking PCP. It's been days. I ask her for the third, fourth, fifth time, what's wrong. She still stares at the spiraling ceiling fan which I see as a camera spinning around and around spotting all this gray in this fucked up room. Static from the TV set tells me its not just the drugs or my imagination, Satan is here for real.
Outside it was crystal meth and night. Lights in the night, neon, zoom zoom fast, we couldn't keep up. Now we're here. Dusted. I can't tell you how much gray there is. Too much. I burn a hole in my middle finger lighting a cigarette.
What's wrong, six seven eight. The camera zooms down, spiraling, locks on her pupil. It widens. A different shot from somewhere else in the room shows all the gray, gray clouds, gray static, gray gray gray dancing over her white body with the jeans halfway down and her hand on her crotch. Switch back to the extreme close up of her pupil. Offscreen:
"Dylan Klebod broke my heart."
Then she asks for more dust, or crystal, I don't hear right.
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