It is evening and the night is knocking on your windows with shapfire nails. Your obese husband has fallen asleep on the cauch and he looks so much like Jabba the Hutt that you recently advised him to join the carnival in the south. The clock goes tik-tak-tik-tak, until it drives you nuts.
You are driven nuts. The night is blooming in the garden now. The clock still goes tik-tak-tik-tak, but it doesn't bother you no longer. Jabba the Hutt snores so loudly that you think you can hear from the sound that he ate too much chocolate earlier that day. For a second you feel like a detective, but only briefly, and then you smile desolate.
This is my life, you think sighing, and brave, and next you leave the room to go to bed and you let Jabba the Hutt behind, dreaming of food, on the cauch. You notice that a brownish fluid drips from his mouth to his clothing while words like the ghosts of butterflies, flutter from his troad.
You are in a bed in a room in a place on a planet in space, and yet you cannot sleep. The other bed is empty and you think about the brownish fluid and you begin to wonder if you saw it right, if it was chocolate. What if it was blood? you keep thinking.
The voice in your head is a lingering mantra.
It is almost morning and you feel like a piece of wreck. You stumble downstairs, your heart pounding, prepaired for something horrifying. You enter the living room and you scream a scream that would have killed Alfred Hitchcock if he was still alive, because you see Jabba the Hutt, swollen and pale and cold on the couch; but awake and desperately graving, swallowing chocolate bar after chocolate bar...
I mean, how bad can life be if there is too much food in the house, man?