Occham\'s Razor Untitled 1

The dirt in my nails leaves grains in my eyes when I rub them to keep myself from dreaming. The dirt turns to mud, my imprefections become apparent in the dark dirty lines down my cheeks. The cold from the faucet stings the cuts on my knuckles when I scrub them to keep myself from bleeding (from the strike of a ruler on the back of the hands over and over 'til it wears out and breaks.)